REESE  LIBRARY  ^ 

1  ,  OK  I'lii: 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

j        '    Received        C/ieATy  ,i^i)(o.  \ 

^Accessions  No.(pl^^%.     CUns  No. 


THE  HOWADJl  IN  SYRIA. 


BY 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 


I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met, 

Yet  all  Experience  is  an  arch  where  thro* 

Gleams  that  untra veiled  world  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever,  when  I  move."' 

Tennyson. 

"  Gottes  ist  der  Orient, 
Gottes  ist  der  Occident, 
Nord-und  siidliches  Gelande 
Buht  im  Frieden  seiner  Handc." 

Goethe. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FKANKLIN      SQUARE. 


(^/'y^r 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 
GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS, 

Ifl  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United   States  foi 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO    THE    PACHA. 

My  dear  Friend, — 

In  making  you  the  Pacha  of  two  tales,  I  confess  with  the 
Syrians,  that  a  friend  is  fairer  than  the  roses  of  Damascus, 
and  more  costly  than  the  pearls  of  Omman. 

You,  of  all  men,  will  not  be  surprised  by  these  pages,  for 
you  shared  with  me  the  fascination  of  novelty  in  those 
eldest  lands, — which  interpreted  to  us  both  that  pleasant 
story  of  Raphael. 

When  his  friend.  Marc  Antonio,  discovered  him  engager' 
upon  the  Sistine  picture  and  exclaimed, 

— "  Cospetto!  another  Madonna?" 

Raphael  gravely  answered, 

— ^^Amico  mio,  my  friend,  were  all  artists  to  paint  her 
portrait  forever,  they  could  never  exhaust  her  beauty." 

New  York,  March,  1852. 


'*  With  a  hoste  of  furious  fancies, 
WTiereof  I  am  Commander. 
With  a  burning  spear, 
And  a  horse  of  the  ayr, 
To  the  wilderness  I  wander." 

Mad  Tom  of  Bedlam. 

._«  Why  should  we  be  of  the  tribe  of  Manasseh,  when  we  can 
wander  with  Esau  ?  Why  should  we  kick  against  the  pricks,  when 
we  can  walk  on  roses  ?  Why  should  we  be  owls,  when  we  can  be 
eagles  ?"  KeaU. 

"  For  us  the  winds  do  blow, 

The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  and  fountains  flow : 

Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good. 

As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure, 

The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food, 

Or  cabinet  of  pleasure." 

George  Herbert 

"  And  they  three  passed  over  the  white  sands  between  the  rocks, 

eilent  as  the  shadows  "     

UBR/fSp>>^  Coleridge, 

>^.   THE  ^ 

'ERSITY 


^tJNlVERsiTY 


CONTENTS. 


THE  DESERT. 

CHArXKR  fAQB 

I. — Grand  Caebo 1 

II. — Departure 16 

III.— Outskirts 22 

IV.— Encamping 29 

v.— The  Camel 35 

VI. — The  Desert  blossoms 42 

VII.— Romance 47 

VIII. — Among  the  Bedoueen 57 

IX. — Into  the  Desert 63 

X.— Mirage 68 

XI.— Under  the  Syrian  Stars 76 

XII.— A  Truce 82 

XIII.— Oasis r 89 

XIV.— Mishap 94 

XV. — Adventure 99 

XVI.— Arma  Virumquf  Cano 106 

XVII.— Quarantlve 116 


JERUSALEM. 

1. — Palm  Sunday 133 

II. — Mehemet  Ali 139 

III.— Advancing 151 

IV. — Jerusalem  or  Rome  ? 158 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEU  PAGB 

V. — TuE  Joy  of  tub  Whole  Earth 1G5 

VI. — 0  Jerusalem  ! 172 

VII. — Within  the  Walls ,. . .  177 

VIII. — Bethlehem 187 

IX. — Life  in  Death 192 

X. — On  the  House-top 200 

XI. — Idolatry 203 

XII.— The  Dead  Sea 218 

XIII. — Addio  Khadra  ! 233 

XIV.— Coming  Away 242 

XV.— Esdraelon 253 

XVI.— Ave  Maria  ! 269 

XVII.— Summer 266 

XVIII.— Acre 270 

XIX. — Sea  of  Galilee 276 

XX.— Panias 281 


DAMASCUS 

I. — The  Eye  of  the  East 291 

II. — Exit  Verde  Giovane 297 

III. — The  House  Beautiful „     .,  300 

IV.— HouRis 304 

v.— Bazaars 310 

VI.— Cafes 320 

VIL— Uncle  Kuhleborn 326 

VIII.— Exodus. 334 

IX.— Baalbec 340 

X. — Nunc  Dimittis 346 


THE    DESERT 


I. 

GRAND    CAIRO. 

"  The  camels  are  ready,"  said  the  commander, 
our  dragoman. 

And  I  turned  for  a  last  glimpse  of  Cairo,  from  the 
lofty  window  of  the  hotel  over  the  Uzbeekeeyah,  or 
public  garden.  The  sun  was  sinking  toward  the 
Pyramids,  and  my  eyes,  that  perceived  their  faint 
outline  through  the  warm  air,  were  fascinated  for  the 
last  time  by  their  grandeur  and  mystery. 

I  held  a  letter  in  my  hand.  It  was  dated  several 
weeks  before  in  Berlin,  and  its  incredible  tales  of 
cold,  thin  twilight  for  day,  of  leafless  trees,  and  of 
bitter  and  blasting  winds,  were  like  ice  in  the  sher- 
bet of  the  oriental  scene  my  eyes  were  draining. 

Beneath  the  balcony  was  the  rounded  fullness  of 
acacia  groves,  and,  glancing  along  the  lights  and 
shadov/s  of  the  avenues,  I  marked  the  costumes 
whose  picturesqueness  is  poetry.  The  glaring 
white  walls  of  plaster  palaces,  and  the  hareems  of 
pachas  rose  irregularly  beyond,  cool  with  dark 
green  blinds,  and  relieving  the  slim   minarets  that 


2  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYEIA. 

played,  fountains  of  grace,  in  the  brilliant  air.  It 
was  a  great  metropolis,  but  silent  as  Venice.  Only 
the  ha-ha  of  the  donkey-boys,  the  guttural  growl 
of  the  camels,  or  the  sharp  crack  of  the  runner's 
whip  that  precedes  a  carriage,  jarred  the  pensive 
silence  of  the  sun. 

I  read  another  passage  in  the  wintry  letter  I  held, 
and  remembered  Berlin,  Europe,  and  the  North,  as 
spirits  in  paradise  recall  the  glacial  limbo  of  the 
Inferno. 

— "  The  camels  are  ready,"  said  the  sententious 
commander. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Howadji,  and  stepped  out 
upon  the  balcony. 

The  Arabian  poets  celebrate  the  beauty  of  Cairo, 
"  Misr^  without  an  equal,  the  mothjer  of  the  world, 
the  superb  town,  the  holy  city,  the  delight  of  the 
imagination,  greatest  among  the  great,  whose  splen- 
dor and  opulence  made  the  Prophet  smile." 

Nor  the  Prophet  only.  For  even  to  Frank  and 
Infidel  eyes  it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  Eastern 
cities. 

It  is  not  so  purely  oriental  as  Damascus,  nor  can 
it  rival  the  splendor  of  the  Syrian  capital,  as  seen 
from  a  distance  ;  but,  architecturally,  Cairo  is  the 
triumph  of  the  Arabian  genius.  It  woos  the  eye  and 
admiration  of  the  stransjer  with  more  than  Muslim 


GRAND    CAIRO.  3 

propriety.  Damascus  is  a  dream  of  beauty  as  you 
approach  it.  But  the  secret  charm  of  that  beauty, 
when  you  are  within  the  walls,  is  discovered  only 
by  penetrating  deeper  and  farther  into  its  exquisite 
courts,  and  gardens,  and  interiors,  as  you  must  strip 
away  the  veils  and  clumsy  outer  robes,  to  behold  the 
beauty  of  the  Circassian  or  Georgian  slave* 

Prince  SoltikofF,  a  Russian  Sybarite,  who  winters 
upon  the  Nile  as  Englishmen  summer  upon  the 
Rhine,  agreed  that  to  the  eye  of  the  stranger  in  its 
streets,  Cairo  was  unsurpassed. 

"But  Ispahan?"  I  suggested:  for  the  Prince 
chats  of  Persia  as  men  gossip  of  Paris,  and  illumi- 
nates his  conversation  with  the  glory  of  the  Ganges. 

"  Persia  has  nothing  so  fair,"  replied  the  Prince. 
"  Leave  Ispahan  and  Teheran  unvisited,  save  by  your 
imagination,  and  always  take  Cairo  as  the  key-note 
of  your  Eastern  recollections." 

It  is  built  upon  the  edge  of  the  desert,  as  other 
cities  stand  upon  the  sea-shore.  The  sand  stretches 
to  the  walls,  girdling  "the  delight  of  the  imagina- 
tion" with  a  mystery  and  silence  profounder  than 
that  of  the  ocean. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  here,  as  elsewhere  in 
the  East,  that  the  national  character  and  manners 
are  influenced  by  the  desert,  as  those  of  maritime 
races  by  the  sea.     This  fateful  repose,  this  strange 


4  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

stillness,  this  universal  melancholy  in  men's  aspects, 
and  in  their  voices,  as  you  note  them  in  quiet  con- 
versation, or  in  the  musical  pathos  of  the  muezzin's 
cry — the  intent  but  composed  eagerness  with  which 
they  listen  to  the  wild  romances  of  the  desert,  for 
which  even  the  donkey-boy  pauses,  and  stands,  lean- 
ing upon  his  arms  across  his  beast,  and  following  in 
imagination  the  fortunes  of  Aboo  Seyd,  or  the  richer 
romances  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights — all  this 
is  of  the  desert — this  is  its  silence  articulated  in 
art  and  life. 

The  bazaars  and  busy  streets  ot  Cairo  are  as  much 
thronged  as  the  quays  of  Naples.  Through  the 
narrow  ways  swarms  a  motley  multitude,  either 
walking  or  bestriding  donkeys,  but  the  wealthier  and 
official  personages  upon  foot.  The  shouts  of  the 
donkey-boys  are  incessant,  and  when  a  pacha's  com- 
ing is  announced  by  the  imperative  crack  of  the  long 
whip,  flourished  by  an  Arab  runner  in  short  white 
drawers  and  tarboosh  or  red  cap,  the  excitement  and 
confusion  in  a  street  which  a  carriage  almost  chokes, 
become  frenzied.  The  conceited  camels  groping 
through  the  crowd,  are  jammed  and  pushed  against 
the  horses  ;  the  donkestrians  are  flattened  sideways 
in  the  same  manner.  Pedlers  of  all  kinds  crowd  to 
the  wall,  there  is  a  general  quarrelling  and  scolding 
as  if  every  individual  were  aggrieved  that  any  other 


GRAND    CAliio.  5 

should  presume  to  be  in  the  way,  while  suddenly  in 
the  midst,  through  the  lane  of  all  this  lazy  and 
cackling  life,  rumbles  the  huge  carriage,  bearing  a 
vrhite-bearded,  fat  Turk  to  the  council  or  tho 
hareem.  Only  the  little  donkeys  stand  then  for 
democracy,  and  persist  in  retaining  their  tails  v/here, 
for  purposes  of  honorable  obeisance  to  the  dignitary, 
their  heads  should  be,  and  receive  a  slashing  cut  for 
their  inflexible  adherence  to  principles. 

Through  this  restless  crowd  in  the  dim,  unpaveri, 
high-walled  streets  of  Cairo,  strings  of  camels  per- 
petually pass,  threading  the  murmurous  city  life  with 
the  desert  silence.  They  are  like  the  mariners  in 
tarpaulins  and  pea-jackets,  who  roll  through  the 
streets  of  sea-ports  and  assert  the  sea.  For  the  slow, 
soft  tread  of  the  camel,  his  long,  swaying  movement, 
his  amorphous  and  withered  frame,  and  his  level- 
lidded,  unhuman,  and  repulsive  eyes,  like  the  eyes 
of  demons,  remind  the  Cairene  of  the  desert,  and 
confirm  the  mood  of  melancholy  in  his  mind. 

The  donkey  is  the  feet  and  carriage  of  the 
Cairene. 

Old  Beppo,  the  legless  beggar  of  the  Spanish 
steps  in  Rome,  given  to  fame  by  Hans  Christian 
Andersen,  in  his  Improvisatore,  was  oriental  in 
many  ways,  but  most  in  the  luxury  of  the  donkey, 
with  which  he  indulged  himself.     And,  practically; 


6  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYKIA. 

the  Cairenes  might  be  all  legless  Beppos.  With 
the  huge  red  slippers  dangling  at  the  sides  of  the 
tottering  little  beasts,  the  toes  turned  upward  in 
an  imbecile  manner,  and  gliding  at  right-angles  with 
the  animal  just  above  the  ground — the  sad-eyed, 
solemn  Cairene  would  hardly  enamour  the  least  fas- 
tidious of  houris,  should  he  so  caracole  to  the  gates 
of  paradise. 

The  donkeys  are  like  large  dogs,  and  of  easy 
motion.  Each  is  attended  by  a  boy,  who  batters 
and  punches  him  behind.  Your  cue  is  resignation. 
You  are  only  the  burden  borne.  Nor  is  it  consonant 
with  your  dignity  to  treat  as  a  horse  an  animal  that 
scarcely  holds  your  feet  above  the  ground,  and  that 
occasionally  tumbles  from  under  you,  leaving  you 
standing  in  a  picturesque  bazaar,  the  butt  of  Muslim 
youth. 

And  wo  to  you  if  on  your  cockle-shell  of  a 
donkey  you  encounter  the  full-freighted  galleon  of 
a  camel.  Dismount,  stop,  fly — or  a  bale  of  Aleppo 
gold-stuffs  or  brilliant  carpets  from  Bagdad,  surging 
along  upon  the  camel,  will  dash  you  and  your  don- 
key, miserable  wrecks,  against  the  sides  of  the  bazaar. 

— "  The  camels  are  ready." 

"  Tdih,  tdib  Mteir,  good,  very  good,  commander, 
but  bear  a  moment  longer,  while  I  gaze  finally  from 
the  balcony  and  remember  Cairo." 


GRAND    CAIRO.  7 

You  will  go  daily  to  the  bazaar,  because  its  pic- 
turesque suggestions  are  endless,  and  because  the 
way  leads  you  by  the  spacious  mosques,  broadly 
striped  with  red  and  blue,  and  because  in  the  shaded 
silence  of  the  interior  you  will  see  the  strange  spec- 
tacle of  a  house  of  God  made  also  a  house  of  man. 
There  congregate  the  poor  and  homeless,  and  ply 
their  trades.  At  nightfall,  as  some  rich  pilgrim 
turns  away,  he  orders  the  sakka,  or  water-carrier, 
to  distribute  the  contents  of  his  water-skin  among 
the  poor.  In  the  silence,  and  under  the  stars,  as  he 
pours  the  water  into  the  wooden  bowls  of  the 
beggars,  the  sakka  exclaims,  *'  Hasten,  0  thirsty, 
to  the  ways  of  God !" — then  breaks  into  a  mournful 
singing — "  Paradise  and  forgiveness  be  the  lot  of  him 
who  gave  you  this  water." 

By  day  and  night,  a  fountain  plays  in  the  centre 
of  the  court,  singing  and  praising  God.  The  chil- 
dren play  with  it,  and  sleep  upon  the  marble  pave- 
ment. The  old  men  crone  in  the  shadow  and 
moulder  in  the  sun.  The  birds  flutter  and  fly,  and 
alight  upon  the  delicate  points  of  the  ornaments, 
and  wheeling,  the  pavement  ripples  in  their  waving 
shadow.  Five  times  a  day  the  muezzin  calls 
from  the  minaret,  "  God  is  great,  come  to  prayer," 
and  at  midnight — "  Prayer  is  better  than  sleep," 
and  at  daybreak — "Blessing   and   peace  be  upon 


8  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

thee,  O  Prophet  of  God,  0  Comely  of  Counte- 
nance !" 

You  pass  on  to  the  bazaars. 

No  aspect  of  life  in  any  city  is  so  exciting  to  the 
imagination  as  the  oriental  bazaars.  They  are  nar- 
row streets,  walled  by  the  lofty  houses  from  whose 
fronts  project  elaborate  lattices,  and  on  each  side  is 
a  continuous  line  of  shops,  which  are  small  square 
cells  in  the  houses,  entirely  open  to  the  street,  and 
raised  two  or  three  feet  above  it.  Over  the  whole, 
between  the  house-tops,  is  stretched  a  canopy  of 
matting,  shutting  out  the  sky. 

In  the  little  niches,  or  shops,  surrounded  by  their 
wares,  sit  the  turbanned  merchants,  silent  or  chatting 
solemnly,  smoking  and  sipping  coffee,  or  bending  and 
muttering  in  prayer. 

A  soft,  mellow  shadow  permeates  the  space,  or 
golden  glints  of  sunlight  flash  through  the  rents  in 
the  matting  above.'  There  is  no  noise  but  the 
hushed  murmuring  of  a  crowd,  sometimes  the  sharp 
oath  of  a  donkey-driver,  or  the  clear,  vibrating  call 
of  the  muezzin. 

As  we  move  slowly  through  the  bazaar,  and  our 
donkey-boy  shouts  imperatively,  "  O  old  man,  de- 
part, depart :  0  maiden,  fly,  the  Howadji  comes,  he 
comes,  he  comes" — the  merchants  scan  us  gravely 
through  the  clouds  that  curl  from  their  chibouques. 


GRAND    CAIRO.  9 

But  the  eyes  of  one  among  them  sparkle  graci- 
ously. 

It  is  a  friend  of  the  commander's  who  purposes 
to  take  gold  from  the  unbelievers,  and  at  his  niche 
we  alight,  and  the  old  men  and  maidens  fly  no 
longer.  The  merchant  spreads  for  us  a  prayer- 
carpet  from  Bagdad,  or  a  Persian  rug,  upon  which 
we  seat  ourselves,  while  chibouques  are  lighted,  and 
a  small,  soft-eyed  Arab  boy  runs  to  the  neighboring 
cafe,  and  returns  with  rich,  sweet  coffee. 

"  The  Howadji  are  Ingleez  f  is  the  amicable  pre- 
lude of  business. 

*'  No.  The  Howadji  are  not  Ingleez,  but  Ameri- 
cani." 

It  is  a  terra  incognita  to  the  swarthy  Turk,  who 
fancies  it  is  some  island  in  the  Red  Sea,  or  a  bar- 
baric dependence  of  Bagdad. 

The  opposite  neighbor  hails  his  brother  merchant 
in  an  unknown  dialect — unknown  to  the  ear,  but 
the  suspicious  heart  interprets  its  meaning — "  Allah 
is  Allah,  0  my  brother ;  praise  God  who  has  this 
day  delivered  goodly  fish  into  thy  net."  The  lazy 
loiterers  gather  around  the  spot.  When  they  are  too 
many,  the  commander  suddenly  swears  a  vehement 
oath,  and  disperses  the  rabble  with  his  kurbash,  or 
hippopotamus  whip. 

The  merchant,   gravely  courteous,   reveals    his 


10  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

treasures,  little  dreaming  that  they  are  inestimable 
to  the  eyes  that  contemplate  them.  His  wares 
make  poets  of  his  customers,  who  are  sure  that  the 
Eastern  poets  must  have  passed  life  in  an  endless 
round  of  shopping. 

Here  are  silk  stuffs  from  Damascus  and  Aleppo ; 
cambric  from  the  district  of  Nablous,  near  the  well 
of  Jacob  ;  gold  and  silver  threads  from  Mount  Le- 
banon ;  keffie,  the  Bedoueen  handkerchiefs  from 
Mecca,  and  fabrics  of  delicate  device  from  Damascus 
blend  their  charm  with  the  Anadolian  carpets  of 
gorgeous  tissue.  The  fruits  of  Hamas  hang  beyond — 
dried  fruits  and  blades  from  Celo  Syria — pistachios 
from  Aleppo,  and  over  them  strange  Persian  rugs. 

The  eye  feasts  upon  splendor.  The  wares  are 
often  clumsy,  inconvenient,  and  unshapely.  The 
coarsest  linen  is  embroidered  with  the  finest  gold. 
It  is  a  banquet  of  the  crude  elements  of  beauty,  un- 
refined by  taste.  It  is  the  pure  pigment  unworked 
into  the  picture. 

But  the  contemplation  of  these  articles,  of  name 
and  association  so  alluring,  and  the  calm  curiosity  of 
the  soft  eyes,  that  watch  you  in  the  dimness  of  the 
Bazaar,  gradually  soothe  your  mind  like  sleep,  and 
you  sit  by  the  merchant  in  pleasant  reverie.  You 
buy  as  long  and  as  much  as  you  can.  Have  rhymes, 
and  colors,  and  fancies  prices  ? 


GRAND    CAIRO.  H 

The  courteous  merchant  asks  fabulous  sums  for 
his  wares,  and  you  courteously  offer  a  tenth  or  a 
twentieth  of  his  demand.  He  looks  grieved,  and 
smokes.     You  smoke,  and  look  resigned. 

•'  Have  the  Howadji  reflected  that  this  delicate 
linen  fabric  (it  is  coarse  crash)  comes  from  Bagdad, 
upon  camels,  over  the  desert?" 

They  have,  indeed,  meditated  that  fact. 

*'Are  these  opulent  strangers  aware  that  the  sum 
they  mention  would  plunge  an  unhappy  merchant 
into  irretrievable  ruin  ?" 

The  thought  severs  the  heart-strings  of  the  opu- 
lent strangers.  But  are  their  resources  rivers,  whose 
sands  are  gold  ? 

— And  the  soft-eyed  Arab  boy  is  dispatched  for 
fresh  coffee. 

We  wear  away  the  day  in  this  delightful  traffic. 
It  has  been  a  rhetorical  tilt.  We  have  talked,  and 
lived,  and  bought,  poetry,  and  at  twilight  our  treas- 
ures follow  us  to  the  hotel. 

We  discover  that  we  have  procured  oriental  gar- 
ments that  we  cannot  wear,  which  are  probably 
second-hand,  and  impart  a  peculiar  odor,  making  us 
wonder  how  the  plague  smells.  We  have  various 
beautiful  caps,  that  heat  our  heads — choice  Turkish 
slippers  that  tumble  us  down  stairs — Damascus 
blades  that  break  with  a  little  bending — spices  and 


V2  THE    HOWADJI    IN    S/KlA. 

odors  of  blessed  Araby  that  we  surreptitiously  eject 
at  back  windows — and  gold-threaded  napkins  of 
Arabian  linen,  that  let  our  fingers  through  in  the 
using. 

Yet  for  these  oriental  luxuries  we  have  not  paid 
more  than  a  dozen  times  their  value  ;  and  when, 
after  a  surfeit  of  sentiment,  did  poets  ever  awake 
without  the  headache  ? 

The  solemn  pomp  of  this  oriental  shopping,  how- 
ever, is  no  less  pathetic  than  poetic.  The  merchant 
higgles  in  phrases  of  exquisite  imagery,  which  may 
be,  with  him,  only  hacknied  forms  of  words  ;  but  are 
the  sadder  for  that  reason.  It  is  not  difficult  to  infer 
the  characteristic  influences  of  a  people,  whose  na- 
tural speech  is  poetry.  And  the  pathos  is  in  the 
constant  reference  of  this  style  of  speech  to  a  corre- 
sponding life. 

Yet  the  Arabian  genius  has  never  attained  that 
life.  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights  are  its  highest 
literary,  the  Kingdom  of  the  Caliphs  its  most  sub- 
stantial political,  and  Islam  its  best  religious, 
achievement.  That  genius  creates  no  longer,  and 
for  the  modern  Muslim,  only  the  traditions  of  these 
things  remain.  The  poets  at  the  cafes  tell  the  old 
tales.  The  splendors  of  the  Caliphat  flash,  a  boreal 
brilliance,  over  an  unreal  past ;  and  Islam  wanes 
and  withers  in  its  sunny  mosques. 


GRAND    CAIRO.  13 

Thus  oriental  life  is  an  echo  and  a  ghost.  Even 
its  ludicrousness  is  relieved  and  sobered  by  its  neces- 
sary sadness.  You  are  pursued  by  the  phantom  of 
unachieved  success ;  you  stumble  among  ruined 
opportunities ;  it  is  a  sphere  unoccupied,  a  body  un- 
informed. 

Strangely  and  slowly  gathers  in  your  mind  the 
conviction  that  the  last  inhabitants  of  the  oldest  land 
have  thus  a  mysterious  sympathy  of  similarity  with 
the  aborigines  of  the  youngest. 

For  what  more  are  these  orientals  than  sumptuous 
savages  ? 

As  the  Indian  dwells  in  primeval  forests,  whose 
soil  teems  with  mineral  treasure,  in  whose  rocks  and 
trees  are  latent  temples  greater  than  Solomon's  and 
the  Parthenon,  and  statues  beyond  the  Greek  ;  in 
whose  fruits  are  the  secrets  of  trade,  commerce,  and 
the  extremest  civilization,  and  who  yet  gets  from 
the  trees  but  a  slight  canoe,  and  from  the  earth  but 
a  flint,  and  from  all  the  infinite  suggestions  of  na- 
ture, nothing  but  a  picturesque  speech, — so  lives  the 
Oriental,  the  pet  of  natural  luxury,  in  a  golden 
air,  at  the  fountains  of  History,  and  Art,  and  Reli- 
gion ;  and  yet  the  thinnest  gleanings  of  stripped 
fields  would  surpass  his  harvest. 

The  likeness  follows  into  their  speech  and  man- 
ner.    The  Indian  still  bears  with  him  the  air  of  si- 


14  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

lence  and  grandeur  that  inheres  in  his  birth-place, 
and  in  the  influences  of  his  life.  The  sun,  and  the 
wind,  and  the  trees,  have  still  their  part  in  him,  and 
assert  their  child.  They  shine,  and  blow,  and  wave, 
through  his  motions  and  his  words.  Like  a  Queen's 
idiot  boy,  he  has  the  air  of  royalty. 

Nor  does  the  Oriental  fail  in  dignity  and  repose. 
His  appearance  satisfies  your  imagination  no  less 
than  your  eye.  No  other  race  has  his  beauty  of 
countenance,  and  grace  of  costume  ;  nowhere  else  is 
poetry  the  language  of  trade.  His  gravity  becomes 
tragic,  then,  when  it  seems  to  you  a  vague  con- 
sciousness of  inadequacy  to  his  position,  the  wise  si- 
lence of  a  witless  man. 

— We  have,  then,  a  common  mother,  and  the 
silence  of  the  western  is  kin  to  that  of  the  eastern 
sky. 

Have  we  sailed  so  far.  Pacha,  to  stand  in  the  bal- 
cony looking  over  the  Arabian  metropolis,  and  smil- 
ing with  the  Prophet  at  its  splendor  and  opulence, 
to  discover  that  our  musings  are  the  same  as  in  the 
crest  of  a  primeval  pine,  or  on  the  solitary  mound  of 
a  prairie  ? 

*'  The  camels  are  ready — " 

"  Yes,  commander,  and  so  are  the  Howadji." 

The  sun  was  nearing  the  pyramids,  and  doubly 
beautiful  in  the  afternoon,  *'  the  delight  of  the  ima- 


GRAND    CAIRO.  15 

gination"  lay  silent  before  us,  a  superb  slave,  com- 
pelling our  admiration.  I  lingered  and  lingered 
upon  the  little  balcony.  Ha-ha,  said  the  donkey- 
boys  beneath,  and  I  leaned  over  and  saw  a  hareem 
trotting  along.  The  camels  lay  under  the  trees,  and 
a  turbanned  group,  like  the  wise  men  at  the  manger, 
in  old  pictures,  awaited  our  departure  with  languid 
curiosity. 

The  Pacha  descended  the  stairs,  and  I  followed 
him,  just  as  the  commander  announced  for  the 
twelfth  time — 

"  The  camels  are  ready-" 


n. 

DEPARTURE. 

The  camels  lay  patiently  under  the  trees  before 
the  door,  quietly  ruminating.  Our  caravan  consioted 
of  seven,  four  of  which  had  been  loaded  and  sent 
forward  with  their  drivers,  and  were  to  halt  at  a 
village  beyond  the  city,  the  other  three  awaited  the 
pleasure  of  the  Howadji  and  the  commander. 

If  the  mystery  of  the  desert  had  inspired  any 
terror  in  our  minds,  surely  the  commander  presented 
at  that  moment  ample  consolation. 

For  several  days  before  our  departure,  the  astute 
Mohammed  had  indulged  in  stories  of  desert  dangers, 
and,  when  he  conceived  that  our  minds  were  suffi- 
ciently exercised,  he  began  his  overtures  for  the 
purchase  of  swords,  guns,  pistols,  and  weapons  of 
all  kinds  and  calibres,  to  secure  us  against  the  perils 
of  the  wilderness.  The  Pacha  had  brought  a  gun 
from  Malta,  and  Nero  had  bequeathed  me  a  pie- 
knife,  of  goodly  strength  and  size,  which  had  done 
admirable  execution  upon  the  pigeon-pasties  of  the 
Nile,  for  which  the  gun  had  furnished  the  material. 


DEPARTURE.  17 

This  was  the  sum  of  our  arsenal,  and  in  con- 
sideration of  the  fact  that  we  should  hardly  be 
attacked  by  any  force  whose  numbers  would 
not  insure  victory,  it  seemed  useless  to  provide 
more. 

But  the  alarmed  commander,  having  testified  that 
there  was  but  one  God,  and  that  Mohammed  was 
his  prophet,  farther  testified  that  one  gun  and  a 
pie-knife  were  flagrantly  insufficient  against  the 
Bedoueen  of  the  desert.  The  Howadji,  therefore, 
yielded,  and  the  commander,  having  increased  my 
store  by  a  pair  of  English  pocket-pistols,  gave  me  a 
bag  of  bullets  w^hich  I  placed  at  the  bottom  of  my 
portmanteau,  and  a  box  of  percussion  caps  which  I 
requested  him  to  carry. 

So  we  descended,  armed  for  the  desert. 

The  Pacha  carried  his  gun,  and  I  was  girded  over 
the  shoulder  with  a  strap  holding  the  pistols  ;  but 
it  was  so  inconveniently  short,  that  my  left  arm 
could  hardly  hang  straight.  We  wore  upon  our 
heads,  wide-awakes  or  slouched  beavers,  wreathed 
with  a  heavy  fold  of  linen,  which  "  the  opulent 
strangers"  had  been  assured  was  the  work  of  Persian 
looms,  and  misgiving  that  the  sun  would  be  more 
formidable  than  the  Bedoueen,  I  concealed  a  pair  of 
blue  wire-gauze  goggles  in  my  pocket. 

For  the  rest,  we  differed  little  from  any  gentle- 


18  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

mer  mounting  their  horses  for  an  evening  ride.  But 
the  commander  was  a  spectacle. 

He  was  a  walking  arsenal.  The  mild  Muslim 
was  swathed  in  steel  bandages  of  cutlasses,  knives 
of  various  sanguinary  devices,  and  shining  tubes  of 
pistols.  The  belts  of  these  weapons  entangled  him 
in  crimson  net-work,  and  even  had  the  scabbards  of 
the  swords  and  daggers  not  been  cased  in  leather 
and  inextricably  knotted  to  their  handles,  so  that  in 
no  extremity  of  peril  could  he  ever  have  drawn  a 
blade — yet  he  was  so  burdened  and  bound  that  he 
could  neither  have  wielded  a  weapon  nor  have  run 
away.  As  the  latter  was  the  commander's  great 
military  movement,  I  was  as  much  perplexed  as 
concerned  at  his  appearance,  until  I  reflected  that 
he  would  conduct  his  retreat  and  escape  with  his 
many  machines  of  war  upon  the  back  of  his  camel. 

I  confess  a  certain  degree  of  satisfaction  in  the 
contemplation  of  this  array  of  defensive  appliances. 
In  a  sudden  crisis  it  seemed  only  necessary  that  all 
parties  should  rush  upon  the  commander,  as  roused 
soldiers  to  their  stacks  of  arms,  and  liberally  fur- 
nished from  his  exhaustless  stores,  give  endless 
battle  to  any  foe. 

He  was  a  diamond  edition  of  the  Turkish  army. 
It  were  unfair  to  suppose  that  he  had  not  adjusted 
his  means  to  his  conscious  power,  and  what  on- 


DEPARTURE.  19 

slaughts  and  carnage  were  implied  in  his  appearance ! 
What  unfought  Marathons  and  symbolical  sieges  of 
Troy  were  moving,  in  his  awful  accoutrements, 
around  the  court  of  Shepherd's  Hotel !  Regarding 
the  air  of  the  movement,  you  would  have  sworn  a 
union  of  Ajax  and  Achilles — looking  in  the  eye,  you 
would  have  owned  Ulysses,  but  surveying  the  sur- 
prising whole,  nothing  less  than  impregnable  Troy 
and  all  catapultic  Greece  had  satisfied  your  fancy. 

— It  was  time  to  mount,  and  the  farewells  must 
be  spoken. 

You,  Nera,  have  not  forgotten  that  last  Cairene 
afternoon,  nor  the  sorrow  that  the  charmed  evenings 
of  the  Nile  were  not  to  be  renewed  upon  the  desert, 
nor  the  warm  wishes,  that  like  gentle  gales,  should 
waft  your  barque  to  Greece.  Neither  have  the 
Howadji  lost  from  memory  the  figure  that  stood  in 
the  great  sunny  door,  waving  a  slow  hand  of  fare- 
well, nor  the  eyes  that  looked,  not  without  haziness 
and  tearful  mist,  toward  the  uncertainty  of  the 
desert. 

Addio,  Nera ! 

With  the  words  trembling  upon  my  tongue,  and 
half  looking  back  and  muttering  last  words,  I  laid 
my  left  hand  carelessly  upon  the  back  of  the  re- 
cumbent camel  to  throw  myself  leisurely  into  the 
seat. 


20  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

I  had  seen  camels  constantly  for  two  months,  and 
had  condemned  them  as  the  slowest  and  most  con- 
ceited  of  brutes.  I  had  supposed  an  elephantine 
languor  in  every  m.otion,  and  had  anticipated  a 
luxurious  cradling  over  the  desert  in  their  rocking 
gait,  for  to  the  exoteric  eye  their  movement  is 
imaged  by  the  lazy  swell  of  summer  waves. 

The  saddle  is  a  wooden  frame,  with  a  small  up- 
right stake,  both  in  front  and  behind.  Between 
these  stakes,  and  upon  the  frame,  are  laid  the  blan- 
kets, carpets,  and  other  woollen  conveniences  for 
riding.  Over  all  is  thrown  the  brilliant  Persian  rug. 
The  true  method  of  mounting  is  to  grasp  the  stakes 
in  each  hand,  and  to  swing  yourself  rapidly  and 
suddenly  into  the  seat,  while  the  camel  driver — if 
you  are  luxurious  and  timid — holds  his  foot  upon 
the  bent  fore-knee  of  the  camel.  Once  in  the  seat 
you  must  cling  closely,  through  the  three  convulsive 
spasms  of  rising  and  righting,  two  of  which  jerk  you 
violently  forward  and  one  backward. 

This  is  a  very  simple  mystery.  But  I  was  igno- 
rant, and  did  not  observe  that  no  camel  driver  was 
at  the  head  of  my  beast.  In  fact,  I  only  observed 
that  the  great  blue  cotton  umbrella,  covered  with 
white  cloth,  and  the  two  water  jugs  dangling  from 
the  rear  stake  of  my  saddle,  were  a  ludcrious  com 
biuation   of  luxury   and    necessity,   and   ready   to 


DEPARTURE.  21 

mount,  I  laid  my  hand  as  carelessly  and  leisurely 
upon  the  front  stake  as  if  my  camel  had  been  a 
cow. 

But  scarcely  had  my  right  foot  left  the  earth  on 
its  meditative  way  to  the  other  side  of  the  saddle, 
than  the  camel  snorted,  threw  back  his  head,  and 
sprang  up  as  nimbly  as  a  colt. 

I,  meanwhile,  was  left  dangling  with  the  blue 
cotton  umbrella,  and  the  water  jugs  at  the  side, 
several  feet  from  the  ground,  and  made  an  abor- 
tive grasp  at  the  rear  stake.  But  I  only  clutched 
the  luxuries,  and  down  we  fell,  Howadji,  pocket- 
pistols,  umbrella,  and  water  jugs  in  a  confused  heap. 

The  good  commander  arrived  at  the  scene  as  soon 
as  the  arsenal  permitted,  and  swore  fiercely  at  the 
Arabs  from  the  midst  of  his  net-work  of  weapons. 
Then,  very  blandly,  he  instructed  me  in  the  mystery 
of  camel-climbing,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were?  on 
the  way  to  Jerusalem  * 


III. 

OUTSKIRTS. 

With  the  first  swing  of  the  camel,  Egypt  and  the 
Nile  began  to  recede.  With  this  shuttle  the  desert 
was  to  be  woven  into  the  web  of  my  life.  To  share 
that  moment's  feeling,  sympathetic  reader,  you  must 
recall  the  change  of  horses  at  La  Storta,  the  last  post 
to  Rome,  and  gild  the  sensation  with  oriental 
glory. 

We  paced  through  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  The 
streets  w^ere  narrow  and  dirty  as  we  approached 
the  gate,  although  they  wound  under  beautiful  lat- 
tices, and  palms  drooped  over  the  roofs.  Sore-eyed 
chil drew  played  around  the  houses.  Barbers  were 
shaving  men  who  kneeled  and  rested  their  heads  in 
the  barber's  lap.  Flabby  women,  in  draggling, 
coarse  veils,  and  scant,  filthy  garments,  loitered  by, 
with  trays  of  thin  cakes  upon  their  heads. 

Through  the  grated  windows  of  the  mosque,  we 
saw  the  silent  devotee  steeped  in  the  red  light  of 
the  westering  sun,  and  dreaming  in  his  squalid  rags, 
which  the  sun's  golden  finger  touched  into  a  gor- 


OUTSKIRTS.  23 

geous  robe,  of  the  paradise  where  "  the  comely  of 
countenance"  should,  even  so,  surfeit  his  lean  soul 
with  bliss. 

"  For  thus,"  says  quaint  old  Burton  of  the  Sara- 
cen, "  he  fats  himself  with  future  joys." 

We  rode  superior  to  the  scene,  upon  our  lofty 
camels.  They  swayed  gently  along,  and  occasion 
ally  swung  their  heads  and  long  necks  awkwardly 
aside  to  peer  through  the  lattices,  and  suffer  their 
eyes  to  browse  upon  hidden  beauty,  as  the  "  large, 
calm  eyes"  of  the  sea-snake  feed  upon  the  mermaid, 
in  Tennyson's  poem. 

The  old  silence  and  sadness,  whose  spell  I  had 
constantly  felt  in  Cairo,  brooded  over  '*  the  superb 
town,  the  holy  city,"  to  the  last.  As  we  passed 
out  of  the  gate  into  the  desert,  no  hop6  called  after 
us. 

The  suburbs  of  "  the  mother  of  the  world"  arc 
tombs.  In  the  desert,  death  beleaguers  the  city, 
and  you  can  well  fancy  that  the  melancholy  genius 
of  the  people  seeks  to  propitiate  the  awful  enemy 
by  these  stately  and  solitary  buildings,  grouped  be- 
yond the  walls  in  the  sand.  Even  as  Andromeda, 
the  king's  own  child,  was  exposed  to  the  common 
foe,  so,  upon  these  wild  sands,  instinctive  nature 
seems  to  aim  at  appeasing  the  hereditary  enemy, 
by  the  beautiful  persuasion  of  art.     These  tombs 


24  THE     HOWADJi    IN    SYRIA. 

are  of  the  finest  oriental  architecture.  They  hold 
the  ashes  of  sultans  and  caliphs  whose  names  are  re- 
membered by  nothing  else.  They  are  mosques  no 
less  than  tombs,  and  travellers,  leaving  or  entering 
the  city,  pause  in  them  to  pray. 

But  their  austerity  is  unrelieved  by  the  gladness 
of  any  green  thing.  Over  our  western  graves,  we 
love  the  sweet  consolations  of  nature  ;  and  the  year, 
changing  from  flower  to  fading  leaf,  in  gracious  ima- 
gery renews  forever  the  mystery  of  life,  and,  with 
almost  human  sympathy,  insists  upon  immortality. 
But  the  changeless  year  glides  unsympathizing  over 
Arabian  graves.  He  is  doubly  dead,  who  is  buried 
in  the  desert. 

As  we  advanced,  we  saw  more  plainly  the  blank 
sand  that  overspread  the  earth,  from  us  to  the  east- 
ern horizon.  Out  of  its  illimitable  reaches  paced 
strings  of  camels,  with  swarthy  Arabs.  Single 
horsemen,  and  parties  upon  donkeys,  ambled  quiet- 
ly by.  The  huge  white  plaster  palace,  which  Ab- 
bas Pacha  was  building  upon  the  edge  of  the  des- 
ert, swarmed  with  workmen,  and  his  army  of  boys 
was  encamped  upon  the  sands  beyond.  Our  path 
lay  northward,  along  the  line  where  the  greenness 
of  the  Nile-valley  blends  with  the  desert.  There 
was  a  little  scant  shrubbery  upon  the  sides  of  the 
way — groves  of  mimosa,  through  which  stretched 


OUTSKIRTS.  25 

the  light  sand,  almost  like  a  road ;  and  towards 
the  west  lay  the  gardens  of  Shoobra,  a  summer 
palace  of  Mehemet  Ali,  palm-fringed  along  the 
shore. 

As  the  sun  set,  I  turned  upon  my  camel,  and 
saw  Grand  Cairo  for  the  last  time. 

One  summer  day,  in  Switzerland,  as  I  climbed 
the  Faulhorn,  I  saw  suddenly  in  a  dark  tarn  below 
me  the  unbroken  image  of  the  snow-summitted  Wet- 
terhorn,  which  was  miles  away,  beyond  the  valley 
of  Grindelwald.  Every  point  of  each  solitary  snow- 
spire  glittered  entire,  and  the  tarn  was  filled  with  the 
majestic  apparition.  So  lay  the  vision  of  cathedral 
sublimity,  pure,  perfect,  and  impossible,  in  the 
mind  of  Michael  Angelo. 

But  here  the  dream  of  a  diiferent  genius  was 
made  visible.  If  that  was  grand  and  austere,  how 
exquisite  was  this  !  The  delicate  grace  of  the  grove 
of  minarets  clustering  in  the  glowing  sunset,  re- 
vealed the  image  of  an  eastern  poet's  mind,  and  the 
voice  of  the  muezzin  that  vibrated  to  our  ears  and 
died  in  a  tranquil  heaven,  touched  them  as  tenderly 
as  the  aerial  outline  struck  the  eye. 

Many  an  evening  I  had  floated  upon  the  lagune 
of  Venice,  homeward  from  the  Lido.  But  the 
rocking  gondola  that  bore  me  to  the  feet  of  the 
Queen   of  the  Adriatic  is   not    more   passionately 


26  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

remembered  than  the  swaying  camel,  that  at  the 
same  moment  of  the  day  bore  me  away  from  "  the 
mother  of  the  world." 

A  lofty  obelisk  rose  between  us  and  the  west. 
Our  eyes  clung  to  it  in  passing,  for  it  marked  the 
site  of  Heliopolis  the  magnificent,  the  city  of  the 
sun.  Plato  went  to  school  there,  and  Moses,  and 
thither  came  Joseph  bringing  the  young  child  and 
his  mother.  It  is  a  mass  of  sand  mounds  now,  and 
a  few  inarticulate  stone  relics.  But  in  its  midst 
lies  a  pleasant  garden,  whose  flowers  wave  around 
the  base  of  the  great  obelisk  on  which  the  hierogly- 
phics are  covered  by  the  cells  of  wild  bees. 

At  Heliopolis,  also,  the  phenix  built  its  funeral 
pyre,  and  rose  from  the  "  Medean  alchemy"  of  its 
own  ashes. 

Yet  in  that  moment,  plodding  along  on  the  top 
of  the  camel,  I  turned  and  gazed  at  Heliopolis  very 
tranquilly.  I  have  looked  with  as  much  excitement 
at  King  Philip's  Mount  Hope,  as  I  sailed  down 
Narragansett  Bay.  This  tranquillity,  however,  was 
not  indifference,  or  satiety,  or  ignorance.  I  was 
conscious  that  the  place  and  the  moment,  the  me- 
mories and  anticipations  with  which  my  life  was 
overflowing  in  that  sunset  had  acclimated  me  to 
this  height  of  interest,  so  that  I  breathed  its  air 
naturally. 


Nothing  could  have  really  surprised  Ixion  after 
the  first  draught  of  nectar.  That  gave  him,  in  a 
goblet,  the  freedom  of  Heaven.  A  man  who  has 
sailed  for  two  months  upon  the  Nile,  encounters  the 
desert  with  an  emotion  none  the  less  profound  be- 
cause it  is  placid. 

Eastern  enthusiasm  is  undoubtedly  suspected. 
The  filth,  fanaticism,  and  inconvenience  of  the  East 
are  not  to  be  denied,  nor  the  alarming  proportion  of 
vermin  to  people  in  oriental  cities.  Therefore,  who- 
ever sees  in  a  mosque  only  red  and  white  plaster, 
or  in  the  Parthenon  but  a  mass  of  broken  marble, 
should  not  expose  himself  to  the  trouble  of  con- 
templating those  objects.  There  are  prints  of  them 
engraved  with  restored  proportions,  a  travelling  and 
thinking  made  easy,  much  preferable  to  the  ocular 
experience  of  those  agile  travellers  who  overrun  all 
Europe  in  three  months. 

When  once  you  are  admitted  ad  eundem  in  that 
enthusiasm,  however,  you  will  readily  forgive  the 
suspicion  of  all  under-giaduates.  Looking  at  the 
East  through  your  experience,  and  confessing  that 
"  we  want  from  nature  but  the  first,  few  primitive 
notes,  in  us  lies  the  true  melody,  with  its  endless 
variations" — you  will  bear  with  the  most  judicious 
doubts  and  the  most  sensible  shrugs,  as  the  astrono- 
mer, stealing  through  his  telescope  the  secrets  of 


28  THE    Ht.WADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

the  moon,  tolerates  the  plain  common  sense  which 
asserts  that  it  is  all  green  cheese. 

I  remember  when  Tadpole  came  home  from  Italy. 
He  seemed  to  me  lil^e  one  who  had  basked  in  the 
latest  smile  of  my  absent  mistress.  I  greeted  him 
as  poor  Arabs  in  a  desert  village  greet  the  Hadji  or 
pilgrim  who  returns  from  Mecca,  and  has  seen  the 
Prophet's  tomb  and  the  holy  stone.  On  the  most 
Italian  of  June  evenings  we  strolled  together  in  the 
moonlight,  and  renewed  in  our  words  the  romance 
of  the  South. 

He  listened  courteously  and  quietly.  I  loved  his 
silence,  in  which  I  perceived  the  repose  of  May  days 
in  Naples.  The  smoke  curled  languidly  from  his 
cigar,  and  we  heard  the  beat  of  oars  upon  the  tran- 
quil bay. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last — "  I  know — it  was  cer- 
tainly so.  But  frankly — do  you  not  think  the  fleas 
balance  the  fascination  ?" 

Tadpole  has  the  reputation  and  privilege  of  a 
travelled  man.  He  brought  shell  necklaces  from 
Venice,  and  corals  from  Naples,  and  scarfs  from 
Rome — ^but,  for  all  that,  he  has  never  been  in 
Italy. 


IV. 

ENCAMPING. 

The  evening  darkened,  and  we  paced  along  in 
perfect  silence. 

The  stars  shone  with  the  crisp  brilliancy  of  our 
January  nights,  but  the  air  was  balmy,  veined 
occasionally  with  a  streak  of  strange  warmth,  which 
I  knew  was  the  breath  of  the  desert.  Under  the 
palms,  along  the  edges  of  cultivated  fields  we 
passed,  a  spectral  procession,  and  I  caught  at  times 
the  fragment  of  a  song  from  the  shekh  who  led  the 
way. 

The  Arabs  who  had  gone  forward  with  the  pack 
camels,  were  to  encamp  just  beyond  a  little  town 
which  we  entered  after  dark.  It  was  a  collection 
of  mud  hovels,  and  we  reflected  with  satisfaction 
upon  the  accommodation  of  our  new  tent,  and  the 
refreshing  repose  it  promised. 

Lost  in  pleasing  anticipations,  we  scarcely  ob- 
served that  our  line  of  march  was  suddenly  altered, 
and  I  had  barely  time  to  save  my  head  from  violent 
contact  with  the  stone  cross-piece  of  a  huge  gate— 


30  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

when  we  perceived  that  we  were  in  a  caravanseri 
or  khan. 

Now  a  khan  in  oriental  literature, — in  parts  of 
Persia  and  in  Damascus,  as  we  shall  hereafter  see, 
is  no  less  beautiful  than  convenient.  But  this 
Khan  in  the  small  mud  town  was  a  square  court,  of 
the  character  and  dignifc)'^  of  a  sheep-fold,  and  by 
no  means  suited  our  anticipations  of  a  desert  camp. 

It  was  dark  within  the  enclosure,  but  the  scene 
was  picturesque. 

By  the  light  of  two  or  three  torches  we  could  see 
our  camels  and  those  of  other  travellers  lying  upon  the 
ground.  Groups  of  Arabs,  and  Egyptian  merchants 
sat  around  the  sides  of  the  yard,  with  their  long 
chibouques,  and  arranged  for  the  night.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  court  was  a  well,  and  around  it  were  piled 
our  camp  equipage  and  our  luggage,  which  the  Arabs 
had  cunningly  removed  from  the  camels.  Upon  en- 
tering, my  camel  snorted  and  sighed  with  satisfac- 
tion, and  immediately  knelt,  delighted  with  the 
prospect  and  the  society.  But  there  was  very 
ominous  silence  on  all  sides. 

We  were  sufficiently  accustomed  to  the  people  to 
understand  that  this  was  the  trial  of  mastery  between 
us.  The  arrangement  of  encamping  outside  the  town 
was  perfectly  comprehended  by  the  Arabs,  but  they 
wisely  wished  to  test  our  metal. 


ENCAMPING.  31 

The  Howadji  were  not  at  all  sorry,  and  after  a 
preliminary  burst  of  surprise  and  indignation,  they 
ordered  the  camels  to  be  instantly  reloaded,  which 
was  a  work  of  no  little  time. 

The  Arabs  expostulated  in  the  most  astonishing 
manner. 

"  What  I  desert  this  agreeable  khan — this  sweet 
security  from  thieves  and  the  nameless  dangers 
of  the  desert !  Load  the  camels  for  a  journey  of  a 
few  minutes,  when  all  was  so  comfortably  arranged 
for  the  night !  It  was  only  a  pleasantry  of  the  be- 
nign Howadji." 

The  groups  of  turbans  and  ample  drapery  emitted 
meditative  smoke,  and  complacently  watched  and 
listened.  Our  Arabs  scolded  and  conversed  apart 
with  Mohammed,  and  he,  the  timorous  commander, 
mado  peace  with  the  enemy,  and  attempted  to  whee- 
dle his  allies.  But  the  command  to  reload  was  sternly 
repeated,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  we  moved 
triumphantly  out  of  the  khan  at  the  head  of  our 
caravan.  A  few  steps  beyond  the  town  brought  us 
to  the  white-domed  tomb  of  a  shekh,  just  on  the  edge 
of  the  desert,  and  there  the  camping-ground  was 
chosen. 

In  a  few  minutes  our  desert  palace  was  built.  It 
was  a  new  white  tent,  and  of  circular  form,  to 
facilitate  the  pitching.     The  pole  was  planted  upon 


32  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

a  spot  indicated  by  the  Pacha,  and  the  canvass  was 
rapidly  laid  over  and  stretched  to  the  pegs.  The 
riding  camels  were  then  led  up,  and  made  to  kneel 
while  the  carpets,  blankets,  and  matting  were  remov- 
ed from  the  saddle.  We  laid  the  matting  upon  the 
sand,  spread  over  it  a  coarse,  thick  carpeting,  and 
covered  the  whole  with  two  Persian  rugs,  one  upon 
each  side  of  the  pole.  The  travelling-bags  were 
then  thrown  in,  and  we  commenced  Arabian  house- 
keeping. 

The  commander's  tent  was  pitched  at  a  little 
distance,  and  into  that  were  conveyed  the  chests  of 
cooking-utensils,  and  the  household-furniture.  He 
built  a  fire  near  by,  and  put  on  some  leathery  water 
to  boil. 

The  camels,  growling  and  grumbling,  lay  outside 
the  camp.  The  fire  flashed  over  the  motley  figures 
of  the  Arabs  crouching  over  it,  and  looking  into  it 
with  melancholy  eyes.  The  commander,  chagrined 
that  his  active  duties  must  commence  that  evening, 
and  vexed  at  the  result  of  his  diplomacy  in  the  khan, 
moved  sulkily  and  silently  among  the  pots  and  pans, 
while  the  Howadji  sat  smoking  in  the  tent,  whose 
yellow-lined  sides  drawn  back  at  the  door,  framed 
the  picture.  All  around,  the  black  night  closed  us  in, 
blacker  and  more  mysterious  for  the  sense  of  the 
dumb  desert  that  lay  in  it.     Out  of  that  desert,  low, 


ENCAMPING.  33 

fitful  gusts  stole  through  the  darkness,  and  puffed 
and  played  with  the  fire  as  with  a  glittering  toy. 
And  as  the  flame  mounted  and  strained  in  the  wind's 
embrace,  it  flashed  upon  the  w^hite  blank  of  the 
tomb,  and  shrank  again  among  the  Arabs,  affi-ighted. 

The  commander  donned  the  golden-sleeve  and 
brought  us  tea.  It  was  placed  on  an  irregular  cir- 
cular stool,  five  or  six  inches  high,  which  served  as 
our  desert-table.  There  was  more  than  the  original 
flavor  of  China  and  the  derived  flavor  of  leather-bot- 
tles in  that  tea  ;  for  it  tasted  of  pleasant  firesides  and 
remembered  tables,  and,  by  the  vivid  contrast,  as  by 
a  song  of  home,  plunged  us  more  remotely  into  the 
wilderness. 

That  ceremony  over  and  another  chibouque  smok- 
ed, we  lay  down  to  sleep.  We  had  brought  no  iron 
bedsteads  as  many  wisely  do ;  but  I  was  not  sorry  to 
feel  that  I  was  lying  on  the  desert. 

Once,  at  midnight,  in  a  ship  at  sea,  I  awoke  and 
was  conscious  of  the  gentle  rocking  of  the  ocean.  I 
knew  that  the  moon  was  bright  upon  the  canvass 
above,  that  even  the  studding-sails  were  set,  and  that 
the  odors  of  Portugal  were  in  the  air.  I  knew  that 
a  strong  hand  was  at  the  wheel,  and  a  faithful  eye 
at  the  bow,  and  that  the  fleet  Nebraska  was  staunch 
and  sure. 

But  in  that  moment,  a  speck  upon  a  chip  in  the 

2* 


34  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYKIA. 

wilderness  of  waters,  my  sense  of  confidence  was  in 
the  slow  sway  of  the  ocean.  For  the  motion  was 
gentle  as  that  of  a  mother  with  a  sleeping  child,  and 
the  languid  creak  of  the  rigging,  like  a  nurse's 
drowsy  croning.  It  was  a  feeling  of  life,  and  the 
faith  that  life  always  inspires. 

But  when  I  stretched  myself  upon  the  desert,  and 
perceived  its  slight  unevenness,  like  the  undulation 
of  the  sea,  stiffened  forever,  and  heard  only  the 
breathing  of  camels — strange,  demoniac  animals — 
and  the  rustle  of  ghostly  winds  from  the  desert  and 
the  darkness,  I  was  penetrated  with  a  sense  of  death, 
and  felt  how  much  more  awful  is  the  desert  than  the 
sea. 

I  lay  long  awake,  in  reveries,  stranger  than 
dreams,  then  fell  into  a  doze — a  limbo  of  fantastic 
fancies — then  was  aware  of  a  strange  sound  in  the 
night.  In  that  environment  of  death,  it  was  like 
the  wail  of  the  banshee.  It  was  near  and  far,  and 
filled  all  the  air — a  melancholy  cry,  that  died  through 
rich  lingering  cadences  into  the  extremest  distance, 
then  poured  its  plaintive  sweetness  into  the  silence 
that  clung,  saddened,  more  closely  to  my  heart. 

I  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  muezzin's  cry.  In 
that  pathetic  wail  I  did  not  hear,  as  the  faithful  heard, 
Al-ld-hu'AJc-bar,     There  is  no  god  but  God. 


THE  CAMEL. 

The  sun  was  a  sluggard  next  morning.  We  were 
up  with  the  last  stars,  and  as  I  pushed  aside  the  tent 
curtains  before  dawn,  I  saw  the  constellations  that 
are  the  glory  of  our  western  evenings.  Orion  and 
the  Pleiades  were  sinking  in  the  west.  The  stars  de- 
scended so  near  to  the  horizon  that  we  seemed  to  be 
embowered  in  them.  They  are  naturally  worshipped 
in  the  desert,  those  friendly,  solitary  wanderers 
through  space,  not  unlike  the  lonely  voyagers  of 
the  wilderness. 

Hot  water,  tea,  toast,  and  a  chibouque,  were 
things  of  a  moment.  There  was  no  luxurious  smok- 
ing, however,  in  those  early  hours.  Tents  were 
falling,  camels  loading  and  growling,  Arabs  scolding 
and  swearing  ;  there  was  the  hurry  of  awaking,  the 
dispatch  of  day,  and  the  commander  putting  on  his 
arsenal.  I  say  "  dispatch,"  and  a  chorus  of  camels 
from  the  desert  snorts  me  to  scorn.  But  an  hour 
and  a  half  usually  sufficed  for  the  matutinal  cere- 
monies.    Then  a  few  cinders  and  scattered  straws 


36  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

Upon  the  sand,  were  the  remains  of  our  pleasant 
desert  pavilion,  and  falling  into  line,  tied  by  the 
halter  to  the  preceding  tail,  the  camels  move  on,  and 
the  caravan  proceeded. 

A  camel  excites  no  sentiment  or  affection  in  the 
Western,  nor  did  I  observe  any  indication  of  the 
Arab's  love  for  the  animal.  He  is  singularly  adapt- 
ed to  his  business  of  walking  over  the  desert ;  but  is 
awkward  and  cross,  and  destitute  of  any  agreeable 
trait.  His  motion  is  ludicrously  stiff  and  slow.  He 
advances  as  if  his  advent  were  the  coming  of  grace 
and  beauty,  and  the  carriage  of  his  neck  and  head 
is  comically  conceited,  beyond  words.  My  camel 
never  suggested  a  pleasurable  emotion  to  me  but 
once,  and  that  was  on  this  first  morning,  when,  as 
we  moved  from  the  camp,  he  lifted  his  head  toward 
the  desert  and  sniffed,  as  if  he  tasted  home  and  his 
natural  freedom  in  the  unpolluted  air. 

The  camels  seem  to  be  only  half  tamed  ;  and  some- 
times, seduced  by  the  fascination  of  the  desert's 
breath,  they  break  from  the  caravan,  and  dash  away 
in  a  wild  grotesque  trot,  straight  into  the  grim  silence 
of  the  wilderness,  bearing  the  luckless  Howadji  upon 
a  voyage  too  vague,  and  pursued  by  the  yells  and 
moans  of  the  Bedoueen.  They  are  guided  by  a 
halter,  slipped  behind  their  ears  and  over  the  nose, 
and  they  swing  their  flexile  necks  like  ostriches.     In 


THE    CAMEL.  37 

the  first  desert  days,  I  sometimes  thought  to  alter  the 
direction  of  my  beast  by  pulling  the  halter.  But  I 
gathered  in  its  whole  length,  hand  over  hand,  and 
only  drew  the  long  neck  quite  round,  so  that  the 
great  stupid  head  was  almost  between  my  knees,  and 
the  hateful  eyes  stared  mockingly  at  my  own.  I 
learned  afterward  to  guide  the  animal  by  touching 
the  side  of  the  neck  with  a  stick. 

The  Pacha's  was  a  smaller  beast  than  mine,  and 
looked  and  acted  like  a  cassowary.  The  Arabs  called 
him  El  Shiraz,  and  the  commander's  was  dubbed 
Pomegranate  by  the  same  relentless  poets.  Mine 
was  an  immense  and  formidable  brute.  He  was 
called  by  a  name  which  seemed  to  me,  naturally 
enough,  to  sound  like  Boobie,  a  name  which  the 
commander  interpreted  to  be  one  of  the  titles  of  a 
beautiful  woman.  But  the  great,  scrawny,  sandy, 
bald  back  of  his  head,  and  his  general  rusty  tough- 
ness and  clumsiness,  insensibly  begot  for  him  in  my 
mind  the  name  of  MacWhirter,  and  by  that  name  he 
was  known  so  long  as  I  knew  him. 

The  motion  of  the  camel,  which  is  represented  as 
very  wearisome,  we  found  to  be  soothing.  The 
monotonous  swing  made  me  intolerably  drowsy  in 
the  still,  warm  mornings,  and  the  dragomen  tell 
tales  of  Howadji  who  drop  asleep  as  they  ride,  and 
who,  losing  their  balance,  break   arms,  legs,   and 


38  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

necks,  in  their  fall  to  the  ground.  The  tedium  of 
camel-riding  is  its  sluggishness  ;  for  although  the 
beasts  can  trot  so  that  sultans  and  caliphs  have  dis- 
patched expresses  in  eight  days  from  Cairo  to  Da- 
mascus, yet  the  trot  of  the  usual  travelling  camel  is 
very  hard.  The  Pacha's  El  Shiraz  had  a  sufficiently 
pleasant  trotting  gait ;  but  MacWhirter's  exertions 
in  that  kind  shook  my  soul  within  me. 

Yet  with  all  this,  the  effect  of  the  motion  of  the 
camel,  separated  from  his  awkward  and  ridiculous 
form  and  its  details,  is  stately  and  dignified.  So 
much  so,  indeed,  that  the  imagination  would  select 
him,  first,  as  the  bearer  of  a  dignitary  in  a  pageant, 
covered  with  long  sweeping  draperies,  which  should 
Conceal  him  entirely,  and  his  rounded  hump  spread 
with  heavy  carpets,  he  presents  a  moving  throne  for 
a  caliph  or  a  sultan,  in  his  desert  progress,  of  dig- 
nity unsurpassed.  The  rider  sits  supreme  above  the 
animal,  and  over  the  earth,  and  the  long  languid 
movement  harmonizes  with  the  magnificent  mono- 
tony of  the  scene. 

When  the  sun  rose,  our  caravan  was  quietly  mak- 
ing its  two-and-a-half  miles  an  hour.  It  advanced 
not  more  rapidly  than  a  small  boy's  walking,  for  at 
the  head  of  the  train,  with  the  halter  of  the  forward 
camel  drawn  over  his  shoulder,  marched  the  young 
Hamed,  an  Arab  boy  often  years,  whose  father  was 


THE    CAMEL.  39 

the  shekh  and  presiding  genius  of  the  caravan,  and 
whose  white-headed  grandfather,  ambling  by  our 
sides  upon  a  little  donkey  which  he  quite  enveloped 
and  concealed  in  his  flowing  garments,  was  our  un 
invited  guest.  There  were  two  or  three  other  men 
as  assistants,  all  friends  or  relatives  of  the  shekh,  and 
we  went  forward,  a  quiet  family-party,  in  the  fresh 
March  morning. 

We  had  encamped  upon  the  verge  of  the  desert, 
and  leaving  the  green  land  as  we  started,  our  route 
now  lay  parallel  with  the  line  of  green,  and  not 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  from  it.  Yet 
that  line  was  as  distinct  as  the  shore  from  the  sea, 
and  we  renewed  upon  the  desert  the  vision  of  the 
Nile-landscape. 

Our  western  horizon  was  an  endless  forest  of 
palms,  with  which  mingled  occasional  minarets. 
The  east  was  a  hard  level  line  of  monotonous  gray. 
My  eyes  clung  to  the  greenness  an'l  -beauty  of  the 
river,  although  in  the  clear  daylight  the  awfulness 
of  the  desert  was  gracious  and  beautiful  also.  Un- 
der our  feet,  and  as  far  eastward  as  we  could  see,  the 
ground  was  like  a  beach  of  firm  gravel.  Never  was 
the  desert,  even  when  we  were  in  it  fairly  and  far,  so 
much  desert  to  the  imagination  as  near  Cairo,  never 
so  glaringly  appalling  as  the  yellow  Libyan  and  Ara- 
bian wastes  that  girdled  the  greenness  of  the  Nile. 


4:0  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

When  we  went,  during  the  Cairo  days,  to  the 
petrified  forest,  a  few  miles  from  the  city  in  the 
wilderness,  I  dreaded  the  desert,  as  in  the  languid 
and  voluptuous  embrace  of  Como,  I  dreaded  the 
snowy  Switzerland  that  rose  severe  from  its  north- 
ern extremity.  Standing  among  the  petrifactions, 
they  were  puerile  and  tame.  I  only  saw  and  felt 
the  desert,  and  no  more  heeded  the  sight  we  came 
to  see  than  a  general,  meditating  the  various  chances 
of  the  impending  battle,  heeds  the  banquet  at  which 
he  sits. 

You  have  stood  upon  the  sea-shore  before  you 
sailed,  and  imagination,  with  an  eye  more  glittering 
than  the  Ancient  Mariner's,  fascinated  hope  and  fear 
with  tales  more  wonderful  than  his.  Friends  and 
foes  were  daily  going  to  sea,  and  the  ocean  was  but 
a  thoroughfare  between  the  continents.  The  ho 
rizon  was  white  with  sails  that  canopied  men, 
smoking,  and  sea-sick,  and  gaming,  and  tortured 
with  ennui,  and  longing  for  land.  The  sea  was 
trite.  Some  mercantile  friends  even  went  up  the 
side  of  the  ship,  with  a  hand-bag  and  an  umbrella, 
to  go  to  England  or  France,  as  you  had  stepped 
upon  a  Hudson  steamer  for  an  evening  at  West 
Point.  But  for  all  that,  before  you  sailed,  the  sea 
was  awful,  mysterious  and  strange  as  death,  although 
friends  die  daily,  and  Sinbad  saw  nothing  which  you 


THE    CAMEL.  41 

might  not  see,  Columbus  sought  no  Cathay  that  you 
might  not  reach. 

More  mysterious,  if  possible,  than  the  ocean  to 
the  untravelled,  is  the  desert  before  you  mount  El 
Shiraz  and  MacWhirter.  It  is  a  sea  of  sand  to  the 
fancy,  a  waste  of  blowing,  soft,  yellow,  glaring 
sand,  utterly  soul-consuming,  without  trees,  with- 
out water,  whereon  the  bones  of  men  and  camels 
bleach  together,  and  the  whirring  sand,  inexorable 
as  the  sea,  hides  as  surely  its  own  devastations. 
Such  in  fierce  midsummer  is  the  arid  heart  of 
Sahara. 

But  the  Arabian  desert  is  a  more  comely  monster, 
though  a  monster  still.  For  the  death  of  the  de- 
sert is  more  awful  than  the  life  of  the  sea,  as  silence 
is  more  terrible  than  sound.  And,  when  experience 
takes  the  tale  from  imagination,  not  less  glittering, 
although  different,  is  its  eye,  not  less  fascinating  the 
closes  of  its  strain,  and  experience,  like  the  mariner, 
leaves  you  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 


VI. 

THE    DESERT    BLOSSOMS. 

The  caravan  plodded  on.  The  morning  and  the 
silence  deepened.  The  stillness  was  not  tranquil- 
lizing, but  exciting.  My  restless  eyes  roved  around 
the  horizon,  and  presently  discovered  another  train 
behind  us.  It  advanced  more  rapidly  than  our  own, 
and,  at  length,  a  grave  old  man  was  visible,  with  a 
venerable  beard  and  a  cheerful  countenance,  riding 
upon  a  white  mare.  Immediately  behind  him,  two 
huge  palanquins  rolled  from  side  to  side  on  the 
backs  of  camels. 

Was  it  not  plain  to  see  that  the  lithe  figure  lean- 
ing from  the  first  palanquin  to  survey  the  strangers 
was  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  grave  old  man, 
and  that  her  unveiled  face  confirmed  the  suspicion 
of  his  dark  turban  (for  Christians  may  wear  no 
other),  that  this  was  no  Muslim,  but  an  Armenian 
caravan  ? 

Did  not  the  Howadji's  eyes  with  warm  Christian 
sympathy  contemplate  this  sister  in  the  faith,  mark- 


THE    DESERT    BLOSSOMS.  43 

ing  the  large,  luminous  eyes,  the  lustrous  fullness  of 
dark  hair,  and  the  fair  oriental  complexion  of  the 
Armenian  ? 

Could  they  fail  to  note  the  maidenly  condescen- 
sion to  the  mysteries  of  the  Muslim  toilette  in  the 
finger-nails  delicately  tipped  with  henna,  or  could 
they  cynically  accuse  the  treachery  of  silken  sleeves 
that  lightly  falling  away  revealed  gorgeous  bracelets 
embracing  rosy  arms  ? 

The  desert  suddenly  blossomed  like  the  rose.  It 
was  an  Armenian  merchant  of  Cairo,  making  the 
pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem  for  the  holy  week.  He 
ambled  toward  the  commander,  who,  smoking  his 
chibouque,  looked  graciously  down  upon  him  from 
the  heights  of  Pomegranate,  and,  after  a  prolonged 
salaam,  inquired  into  our  history. 

"  Two  opulent  strangers,"  retorted  the  com- 
mander in  the  full  glory  of  the  golden  sleeve ; 
"  two  great  American  Moguls  going  to  gladden 
Jerusalem  with  their  presence." 

*'  Tdih,  taib  Jcateir  (good,  very  good),"  gravely 
replied  the  Armenian,  inclining  toward  El  Shiraz 
and  MacWhirter.  "  Would  it  be  pleasant  to  journey 
together?" 

"I  will  consult  the  Moguls,"  said  the  lofty  com- 
mander, and  he  turned  to  converse  with  us. 

"  Do   any  of  them  speak  English  ?"  anxiously 


44  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

inquired  the  Pacha,  and  the  commander  repeated 
the  inquiry  to  the  old  man. 

^'  Ah!  kooltooluk  (Oh  heavens),  no,"  replied  the 
venerable  beard ;  "  but  Arabic,  Coptic,  Syriac,  a 
little  Persian  and  Turkish,  and  madame,  the  mother 
of  the  beautiful  daughter,  imperfect  Italian." 

"  Well,  I  don't  speak  Italian,"  said  the  Pacha, 
"  so  they  may  come  along." 

We  moved  on.  Presently  seeing  madame,  the 
mother  of  the  beautiful  daughter,  looking  out  of  the 
palanquin,  and  remembering  her  accomplishments, 
I  ventured  an  overture,  and,  looking  straight  in  the 
daughter's  eyes,  remarked  to  the  mother — 

"  Fa  hello  oggi,  Signora  (It  is  a  pleasant  day, 
Madame)." 

"  Si,  non  ca/pisco,  Signore  (Yes,  I  don't  under- 
stand, sir),"  returned  the  mother  very  graciously. 

I  was  rather  ashamed  of  such  a  morning-call  re- 
mark to  an  Armenian  lady  upon  the  desert,  and  felt 
rebuked  by  her  ignorance  of  conventional  conversa- 
tion.    I  tried  again.  ^ 

''^Andate  a  Gerusalemme  anche  lei  ?  (You  are  also 
going  to  Jerusalem  ?)" 

"  Si,  non  capisco,  Signore.^'' 

And  I  suspected  the  Italian  vras  more  imperfect 
than  the  old  man  knew^. 

But  the  beautiful  daughter  manifested  an  extreme 


THE    DESERT    BLOSSOMS.  46 

interest  in  the  conversation,  and  I  fear  was  some- 
what amused  at  the  discrepancy  between  the  splen- 
dor of  the  strangers'  titles  and  that  of  their  robes, 
which  were  far  from  royal. 

So,  in  view  of  the  eyes  I  began  again:  "ia 
figlia  7ion  parla  Italiano  ?  (The  daughter  does  not 
speak  Italian  ?)" 

*'*S^  non  capisco,  Signore,^^  came  graciously  as  ever 
from  the  maternal  lips,  and  the  caravans  relapsed 
into  silence. 

By  three  o'clock  we  began  to  think  of  encamping. 
Travellers  complain  of  the  short  day's  work  upon 
the  desert ;  but  surely  if  you  mount  MacWhirter  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  you  will  be  ready  by 
two  or  three  o'clock  to  intermit  the  monotonous 
jerk  of  his  gait,  and  stretch  yourself  upon  the  car- 
pet over  the  soft  sand.  The  camp  was  pitched  not 
far  from  shore  ;  for  so  seemed  the  green  land  to  the 
west,  and  the  door  of  our  pavilion  was  arranged  to 
command  that  of  the  grave  Armenian. 

Before  suHset  two  great  German  Moguls  came  up, 
convoyed  by  a  wretched  party  of  Arabs,  and  a  one- 
eyed  dragoman.  They  had  an  unhappy  air,  and 
stood  in  the  way  of  the  men  who  were  pitching 
their  tents,  looking  longingly  at  the  palm-trees,  and 
dismally  toward  the  desert,  as  if  the  East  were  an 
**  experience  "  which  they  must  undergo.    And  while 


46  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

they  stood  there  in  the  sunset,  mentally  moaning 
that  they  must  sup  without  sauer-kraut,  and  wish- 
ing that  Goethe  had  never  written  the  West- 
Oestlicher-Divan,  nor  Riickert  his  Ghazelles,  a  gay 
wind  blew  out  of  the  desert,  tossing  sand  in  their 
faces,  and  running  with  low  gusty  laughter  to  play 
with  the  palms,  and  to  carry  back  into  the  wilder- 
ness the  muezzin's  cry. 

It  fled,  and  we  watched  the  day  gloriously  dying. 
Then  suddenly  fell  over  the  World  the  sable  folds 
of  the  great  tent  of  night :  the  darkness  was  cool 
and  sweet,  and  through  myriads  of  points  above,  the 
gone  glory  of  the  day  looked  in  and  made  the  dark- 
ness gorgeous. 


VII. 

ROMANCE. 

"  0  GREAT  American  Mogul,  are  you  awake  ?" 
asked  I  of  the  Pacha,  in  the  early  starlight  of  the 
second  day. 

"  I  am,"  he  said. 

"  This  is  the  great  Syrian  desert — six  hundred 
leagues  in  length,  three  hundred  in  breadth,  ex- 
tending from  Aleppo  to  the  Arabian  Sea,  from 
Egypt  to  the  Persian  Gulf  "— 

"  O  great  American  Mogul,"  interrupted  the 
Pacha,  '*  are  you  awake  ?" 

*'  Most  certainly  I  am,  and  that  strip  of  palm- 
land  which  begins  to  glimmer  through  the  dying 
night  is  Egypt,  of  which  a  Turkish  Pacha  said, 
Egypt  is  the  most  beautiful  farm,  but  Syria  is  a 
charming  country-house." 

**  Moreover,"  I  continued,  "  Arab  signifies  in  the 
original,  solitude  or  desert.  And  this  is  the  oldest 
and  most  estimable  of  lands" — 

*'  This  sand  ?"  inquired  the  Pacha. 

*'No  ;  but  this  East  which  has  mothered  us  all, 


48  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

sending  out  of  its  apparently  sterile  womb  race 
after  race  whose  wildness  has  been  tamed  into  wis- 
dom, and  whose  genius,  early  fed  with  grandeur 
and  simplicity  on  the  luxuriant  shores  of  this  river, 
and  in  the  solitude  of  the  wilderness,  has  ripened 
into  the  art  and  literature  and  religion  which  have 
made  us,  and  which  w^e  cherish." 

"Well!" 

"  Well,  Pacha,  eschewing  the  leathery  tea  which 
the  commander  is  getting  ready,  you  shall  break- 
fast upon  the  styles  and  titles  of  the  prince  of  this 
renowned  land.  You  will  agree  that  they  become 
the  dignity  and  character  of  the  realm.  They  will 
not  seem  absurd  to  you  in  this  tent,  although  they 
would  seem  so  in  the  club  and  counting-house  ;  and 
they  will  impart  a  fine  flavor  to  your  desert  reveries. 
Pacha,  perpend  ;  *  I,  by  the  infinite  grace  of  the 
great,  just,  and  omnipotent  Creator,  and  by  the  in- 
numerable miracles  of  the  chief  of  Prophets,  Em- 
peror of  powerful  Emperors,  the  Refuge  of  Sover- 
eigns, Distributor  of  Crowns  to  the  Kings  of  the 
Earth,  Servant  of  the  thrice  sacred  cities,  (Mecca 
and  Medina,)  Governor  of  the  Holy  City  of  Jerusa- 
lem, Master  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  conquered 
by  our  victorious  sword  and  by  our  terrific  lance. 
Lord  of  three  seas,  (White,  Black,  and  Red,)  of 
Damascus  the  odor  of  Paradise,  of  Bagdad,  the  seat 


ROMANCE.  49 

of  the  Caliphs,  of  the  fortresses  of  Belgrade,  Agria, 
and  a  multitude  of  countries,  islands,  straits,  nations, 
generations,  and  of  so  many  victorious  armies  which 
repose  beneath  the  shadow  of  our  Sublime  Porte, 
I — the  shadow  of  God  on  earth  !'" 

That  is  the  name  of  the  king  of  this  country, 
the  style  of  the  sultan ;  and  it  is  as  sensible  and 
sonorous  as  the  "  Defender  of  the  Faith,"  applied 
to  the  English  king,  George  the  Fourth,  or 
"Most  Christian  King"  to  the  last  sovereigns  of 
France. 

I  like  these  glittering  shreds,  and  patches,  and 
remnants  of  magnificence.  Despite  the  gentle 
Juliet,  the  melody  of  the  name  should  accord  with 
the  sweetness  of  the  odor,  and  the  name  of  the  sul- 
tan ungarnished  with  these  thundering  tail-pieces 
would  be  as  little  agreeable  as  the  prefix  of  *'  puis- 
sant" to  our  own  President.  The  sultan  is  the 
Lord  of  three  seas,  and  of  the  odor  of  Paradise,  and 
of  the  seat  of  the  Caliphs ;  but  what  faith  did 
George  the  Fourth  ever  defend,  except  that  extra- 
ordinary creed  of  his  being  the  first  gentleman  in 
Europe  ?  And  what  were  the  shining  "  Christian" 
virtues  of  the  Bourbon  kings  of  France  ? 

— While  we  sat,  pleasing  fancy  with  this  pompous 

prelude  of  the  sultan's  laws,  the  sun  rose  through 

the  morning  vapors,  like  the  full  red  moon.    Khadra« 
3 


60  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

the  Armenian's  beautiful  daughter,  stepped  into  her 
palanquin.  The  Germans  who  had  paid  specified 
piastres  for  the  vision  of  the  East,  were  already  sea- 
sick upon  their  camels,  and  were  disappearing 
toward  the  horizon  with  their  one-eyed  keeper ;  and 
the  venerable-bearded  Armenian  paced  up  on  his 
white  mare  to  offer  the  morning  salute  to  El  Shiraz 
and  MacWhirter. 

The  commander  had  retired  to  a  little  distance, 
and  was  purposing  to  perform  the  wudoo,  or  ablu- 
tion for  prayer,  sprinkling  sand  upon  his  hands,  for 
the  Prophet  permits  sand  to  be  used  in  a  scarcity  of 
water.  The  father  of  our  Shekh  ambled  off  upon 
his  little  donkey  alone,  over  the  hard,  level  desert, 
as  naturally  and  unconcernedly  as  a  gray-haired 
mariner  in  a  cock-boat  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 
Hamed  drew  the  halter  over  his  shoulder,  and  with 
short  quick  steps  led  our  caravan  once  more  upon 
its  way. 

The  sense  of  freedom  and  satisfaction  in  the  desert- 
life,  to  those  who  are  bred  in  the  harassing  details 
of  civilization,  has  been  w^ell  sung.  Yet  in  reading 
books  of  travel,  we  take  words  for  things,  and  for- 
get in  the  theoretical  familiarity  with  strange  expe- 
riences, how  exciting  the  experience  will  be.  In 
my  own  wanderings,  I  have  observed  that  the  real- 
ity always  blotted  from  memory  the  many  pictures 


ROMANCE.  51 

which  books  had  painted  there ;  and  the  endlesa 
volumes  of  travel  w^hich  are  published,  spring,  I  am 
sure,  not  only  from  the  selfish  v^ish  to  make  a  book, 
but  from  the  unselfish  desire  to  communicate  im- 
pressions which  are  so  vivid  in  actual  experience, 
that  they  seem  to  be  entirely  new. 

Thus  I  entered  Rome  in  the  dusk  of  an  autumn 
day,  and,  without  having  seen  any  ruin  or  point  of 
fame,  I  was  awakened  by  a  heavy  hunder-showerin 
the  night.  As  I  lay  listening  to  the  crashing  peals,  I 
could  only  say,  "  Rome,  Rome,"  and  wondered,  in 
the  fury  of  a  fearful  burst  of  the  storm,  if  it  had  not 
struck  St.  Peter's.  Then  I  besought  memory  to 
tell  me  what  it  knew  of  St.  Peter's,  but  it  only 
smiled  inarticulately,  and  indicated  a  sublime  archi- 
tectural vastness.  What  the  details  were,  what 
pictures  were  there,  what  statues,  what  statistics  of 
measurement,  it  did  not  tell,  although  it  had  enjoyed 
such  ample  opportunities  to  know,  and  m}^  only 
other  consolation  of  knowledge  in  that  moment, 
was  the  conviction  that,  somewhere  in  the  shadow 
of  St.  Peter's,  the  Miserere  was  sung  during  the 
ho^y  week. 

So  when  I  passed  down  the  long  gallery  of  the 
Vatican,  hastening  to  the  Apollo  and  the  Transfigu- 
ration, casts  and  engravings  vanished  from  remem- 
brance, and  the  charm  of  the  statue  and  of  the  pic- 

OF  THE  ^ 

XlfKlVERSITY 


52  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

ture  was  as  original  as  if  I  had  been  the  first  specta- 
tor of  their  beauty. 

So,  as  you  mount  MacWhirter  and  follow  the 
boy  Ilamed  into  the  desert,  its  breath  blows  you  a 
welcome,  and  the  same  breath  disperses  the  fancies 
you  bring  with  you.  You  breathe  inspiration  and 
exhilaration.  That  latent  germ  of  the  Asian  and 
Bedoueen  which  inheres  in  you,  responds  to  the  cool, 
vast  silence,  to  the  Arabian  horizon.  You  are  no- 
madic, you  a  wanderer,  and  you  must  needs  dream 
of  a  life  under  the  coarse,  shapeless,  black  tents  of 
the  Arabs  which  we  are  passing,  and  wonder  if 
Khadra  yonder,  the  large-eyed,  olive-skinned  Arme- 
nian girl,  would  follow  you  forever,  and  willingly 
share  with  you  in  those  sandy  solitudes,  the  rice, 
lentils,  butter,  and  dates,  w^hich  are  the  staple  food 
of  the  Bedoueen. 

But  as  we  coast  along  the  green  sand,  while  the 
warm  southerly  gale  freshens,  and  enter  upon  a 
tract  of  pure  Sahara,  over  which  the  dead  white 
light  glares  and  burns,  the  imagination  grows  more 
voluptuous,  and  you  remember  that  the  desert  is 
not  all  ascetic,  but  has  a  strain  of  splendor  in  its 
history,  and  has  seen  other  sights  than  solitary 
trains  of  camels  and  a  white-bearded  old  shekh  can- 
tering upon  a  donkey. 

Turning  your  back  upon  the  west  and  the  palms, 


ROMANCE.  53 

and  looking  eastward,  3^ou  recall  that  Arabian  his- 
torians relate  the  pious  pilgrimage  of  Haroun  El 
Rashid  and  Zobeide  over  the  eastern  region  of  this 
same  desert,  from  Bagdad  to  Mecca.  They  per- 
formed the  journey  upon  foot,  those  pious  pilgrims, 
but  they  were  royally  attended,  and  a  carpet  was 
unrolled  before  them  as  they  went,  so  that  the 
way  was  but  one  long  pavilion,  a  gorgeous  gallery, 
cloud-frescoed,  sun-goldened,  moon-mellowed,  and 
for  wall  the  shining  infinitude  of  the  horizon,  paint- 
ed by  imagination  and  peopled  by  religious  faith,  at 
wilL  At  every  stage  of  the  progress,  a  castle  was 
erected,  magnificently  furnished,  and  a  million  and 
fifty  thousand  dynars  were  disbursed  in  gifts. 

This  story  has  the  true  flavor  of  the  Arabian 
Nights.  But  El  Easy,  most  romantic  of  historians, 
strings  a  rosary  of  such  pearls. 

He  relates  that  when  the  mother  of  the  last  of  the 
Abassides  made  the  Mecca  pilgrimage,  in  the  year 
631  of  the  Hegira,  about  1243  of  our  era,  her  cara- 
van numbered  not  less  than  one  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  camels.  In  the  year  97  of  the  same  epoch, 
a  sultan  took  with  him  nine  hundred  camels  for 
his  wardrobe  alone.  Another,  long  before  Haroun 
El  Rashid,  spent  thirty  million  dirhems  upon  the 
journey,  building  fine  houses  at  every  station,  and 
furnishing  them  splendidly,  erecting  mile-stones  the 


51  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

whole  way ;  and,  exquisite  epicurean,  freighted 
hundreds  of  camels  with  snow  to  cool  his  sherbet. 
Haroun  El  Rashid  nnight  no  longer  reign  in  imagina- 
tion as  the  oriental  Epicurus,  although  he  did  per- 
form the  pilgrimage  nine  times,  should  the  name  of 
this  Sybarite  transpire.  And  his  chance  is  farther 
threatened  by  the  sultan,  who,  in  719,  carried  with 
him  five  hundred  camels  for  sweetmeats  and  con- 
fectionary, and  two  hundred  and  eighty  for  pome- 
granates, almonds,  and  other  fruits.  In  his  travel- 
ling larder,  also,  there  were  a  thousand  geese  and 
three  thousand  fowls. 

Indeed,  as  we  stop  to  lunch,  and  the  commander 
hands  us  the  bread,  cheese,  and  dates,  which  are  our 
morning  refreshment,  we  seriously  consider  whether 
the  romances  of  the  Arabian  Nights  are  not  veritable 
history. 

"  Or  the  veritable  history  a  romance  of  the  Ara- 
bian Nights,"  says  the  cold-blooded  Pacha. 

As  we  lunched,  we  noted  the  little  blue  blossoms 
that  grew  among  the  flinty  stones,  cheering  as  the 
odors  of  land  that  breathe  around  the  seaman.  For 
we  constantly  spoke  of  coasting  along  the  green, 
and  putting  out  to  the  desert  as  voyagers  speak  of 
the  ocean. 

And  here,  for  the  first  time,  you  feel  the  full  force 
of  the  name,  •'  ship  of  the  desert,"  applied  to  the 


ROMANCE.  55 

camel.  For  not  only  is  he  the  means  of  navigation, 
but  his  roll  is  like  that  of  a  vessel,  and  his  long, 
flexible  neck  like  a  pliant  bowsprit.  The  resem- 
blance was  strengthened  and  fixed  foiever  by  the 
younger  of  the  unhappy  German  Moguls,  who,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  had  not  slept,  and  to  whom 
the  West-Oestlicher  Divan  was  of  small  account, 
went  off  in  the  gray  dawn,  sea-sick  upon  his  camel. 

I  fear,  that  to  the  lambent  eyes  of  Khadra,  when 
lunch  was  over  and  we  brought  our  sulky  brutes  to 
the  ground  again,  and  resumed  our  way,  I,  contem- 
plating the  scene  through  blue  wire-gauze  goggles, 
was  not  a  purely  oriental  object.  I  had  no  suspicion 
of  it,  I  confess,  until  I  saw  the  Pacha  bind  his  around 
his  eyes.  But  after  a  single*  glance  at  him,  I  re- 
moved my  own,  and  braved  the  burning  sun. 

And  away  we  went  again,  the  little  Hamed  with 
his  quick,  short  steps,  pulling  us  over  the  desert. 

Away  we  went  again,  lost  in  silence  and  in 
dreams. 

You  are  there  in  Arabia,  though  they  call  it  the 
Syrian  desert.  You  shall  see  Jerusalem,  and  dimly 
along  the  horizon,  the  crescented  minarets  of  Da- 
mascus quiver  in  the  tremulous  air  of  hope.  Your 
dreams  of  boyhood,  your  elder  hopes  were  worth  the 
trusting;  for  this  eastern  sun  daily  proves  their 
truth. 


66  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

And  you,  friend  of  mine,  while  you  turn  my 
pages — even  now  dreaming  and  hoping  as  I  dreamed 
and  hoped,  turning  with  feverish  fingers  the  pages 
of  others — scorn  the  scoffer,  and  believe  in  the 
beauty  and  mystery  of  the  East.  The  picturesque 
and  nameless  charms  that  haunt  your  fancy  of  the 
Orient,  shall  be  experienced.  Here  you  shall  be 
thrilled  with  that  sense  of  lofty  and  primeval  free- 
dom which  shall  throb  ever  after  through  the  limited 
life  that  we  must  lead. 

For  the  Orson  in  you,  the  savage  man,  the  spirit 
that  loves  the  rock,  and  the  waste,  and  the  bound- 
less horizon,  with  what  w^e  call  mere  human,  sen- 
suous love;  the  spirit  that  dv/indles  cities  and  their 
extremest  possibility  before  the  grandeur  and  repose 
of  a  wilderness  lying  in  the  twilight  of  tradition — 
which  seizes  the  manly  and  noble  among  young  men, 
and  drags  them  to  the  mountains  and  the  prairies 
— that  is  the  spirit,  which,  like  the  camel,  on  the 
first  morning,  will  raise  its  head  and  scent  the  wild 
fascination  of  the  desert :  which  will  shout  aloud 
and  rejoice  in  the  morning  and  in  the  stars — crying 
ha-ha  to  the  desert,  as  the  horse  cries  to  the 
trumpets. 


VIII. 

'  AMONG    THE    BEDOUEEN. 

The  pleasant  tales  of  sultans'  pilgrimages  are 
only  the  mirage  of  memory. 

The  poor  and  pious  Muslim,  which  is  not  the  title 
of  caliphs,  when  he  undertakes  a  long  desert  journey, 
does  not  carry  nine  hundred  camels  for  his  wardrobe, 
but  he  carries  his  grave-linen  with  him. 

Stricken  by  fatigue,  or  privation,  or  disease, 
when  his  companions  cannot  tarry  for  his  recovery 
or  death,  he  performs  the  ablution  with  sand,  and 
digging  a  trench  in  the  ground,  wraps  himself  in  his 
grave-clothes,  and,  covering  his  body  with  sand,  lies 
alone  in  the  desert  to  die,  trusting  that  the  wind 
will  complete  his  burial. 

In  the  Arabs  around  you,  you  will  mark  a  kindred 
sobriety.  Their  eyes  are  luminous  and  lambent,  but 
it  is  a  melancholy  light.  They  do  not  laugh.  They 
move  with  easy  dignity,  and  their  habitual  expres- 
sion is  musing  and  introverted,  as  that  of  men  whose 
ro.inds  are  stored  with  the  solemn  imagery  of  the 

desert. 
3* 


68  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

You  will  understand  that  your  own  party  of  Arabs 
is  not  of  the  genuine  desert  breed.  They  are 
dwellers  in  cities,  not  dwellers  in  tents.  They  are 
mongrel,  like  the  population  of  a  sea-port.  They 
pass  from  Palestine  to  Egypt  with  caravans  of  pro- 
duce, like  coast-traders,  and  are  not  pure  Bedoueen. 

Btft  they  do  not  dishonor  their  ancestry.  When 
a  true  Bedoueen  passes  upon  his  solitary  camel,  and 
with  a  low-spoken  salaam  looks  abstractedly  and 
incuriously  upon  the  procession  of  great  American 
Moguls,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  his  expression  is  the 
same  as  that  of  the  men  around  you,  but  intensified 
by  the  desert. 

Burckhardt  says  that  all  orientals,  and  especially 
the  Arabs,  are  little  sensible  of  the  beauty  of  nature. 
But  the  Bedoueen  is  mild  and  peaceable.  He  seems 
to  you  a  dreamy  savage.  There  is  a  softness  and 
languor,  almost  an  effeminacy  of  impression,  the 
seal  of  the  sun's  child.  He  does  not  eat  flesh — or 
rarely.  He  loves  the  white  camel  with  a  passion. 
He  fights  for  defence,  or  for  necessity  ;  and  the 
children  of  the  Shereefs,  or  descendants  of  the  Pro- 
phet, are  sent  into  the  desert  to  be  made  heroes. 
They  remain  there  eight  or  ten  years,  rarely  visiting 
their  families. 

The  simple  landscape  of  the  desert  is  the  symbol 
of  the  Bedoueen's  character ;  and  he  has  little  know- 


AMONG    THE    BEDOUEEN.  59 

ledge  of"  more  than  his  eye  beholds.  In  some  of  the 
interior  provinces  of  China,  there  is  no  name  for  the 
ocean,  and  when,  in  the  time  of  shekh  Daheir,  a 
party  of  Bedoueen  came  to  Acre  upon  the  sea,  they 
asked  what  was  that  desert  of  water. 

A  Bedoueen,  after  a  foray  upon  a  caravan,  dis- 
covered among  his  booty  several  bags  of  fine  pearls. 
He  thought  them  dourra,  a  kind  of  grain.  But  as 
they  did  not  soften  in  boiling,  he  was  about  throw- 
ing them  disdainfully  away,  when  a  Gaza  trader 
offered  him  a  red  Tarboosh  in  exchange,  which  he 
delightedly  accepted. 

Without  love  of  natural  scenery,  he  listens  for- 
ever to  the  fascinating  romances  of  the  poets ;  for 
beautiful  expressions  naturally  clothe  the  simple 
and  beautiful  images  he  everywhere  beholds.  The 
palms,  the  fountains,  the  gazelles,  the  stars,  and  sun, 
and  moon,  the  horse,  and  camel,  these  are  the  large 
illustration  and  suggestion  of  his  poetiy. 

Sitting  around  the  evening  fire,  and  watching  its 
flickering  with  moveless  melancholy,  his  heart  thrills 
at  the  prowess  of  El-Gundubah,  although  he  shall 
never  be  a  hero,  and  he  rejoices  when  Kattalet-esh- 
Shugan  says  to  Gundubah,  "  Come  let  us  marry 
forthwith,"  although  he  shall  never  behold  her 
beauty,  nor  tread  the  stately  palaces. 

He  loves  the  moon  which  shows  him  the  way  over 


60  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYEIA. 

the  desert  that  the  sun  would  not  let  him  take  by 
day,  and  the  moon  looking  into  his  eyes,  sees  her 
ov/n  melancholy  there.  In  the  pauses  of  the  story 
by  the  fire,  while  the  sympathetic  spirits  of  the  de- 
sert sigh  in  the  rustling  wind,  he  says  to  his  fellow. 
*  Also  in  all  true  poems  there  should  be  palm-trees 
and  running  water." 

For  him,  in  the  lonely  desert,  the  best  genius  of 
Arabia  has  carefully  recorded  upon  parchment  its 
romantic  visions ;  for  him  Haroun  El  Rashid  lived 
his  romantic  life ;  for  him  the  angel  spoke  to  Mo- 
hammed in  the  cave,  and  God  received  the  Prophet 
into  the  seventh  heaVen. 

Some  early  morning,  a  cry  rings  through  the 
group  of  black  square  tents.  He  springs  from  his 
dreams  of  green  gardens  and  flowing  waters,  and 
stands  sternly  against  the  hostile  tribe  which  has 
surprised  his  own.  The  remorseless  morning  se- 
cretes in  desert  silence  the  clash  of  swords,  the  ring 
of  musketry,  the  battle-cry.  At  sunset  the  black 
square  tents  are  gone,  the  desolation  of  silence  fills 
the  air  that  was  musical  with  the  recited  loves  of 
Zul-Himmeh,  and  the  light  sand  drifts  in  the  even- 
rjg  wind  over  the  corpse  of  a  Bedoueen. 

— -So  the  grim  genius  of  the  desert  touches  every 
stop  of  romance  and  of  life  in  you,  as  you  traverse  his 
realm  and  meditate  his  children.     Yet  w^arm  ana  fas- 


AMONG    THE    BEDOUEEN  01 

cinating  as  is  his  breath,  it  does  not  warp  your  loyalty 
to  your  native  West,  and  to  the  time  in  which  you 
were  born.  Springing  from  your  hard  bed  upon  the 
desert,  and  with  wild  morning  enthusiasm,  pushing 
aside  the  door  of  your  tent,  and  stepping  out  to 
stand  among  the  stars,  you  hail  the  desert  and  hate 
the  city,  and,  glancing  toward  the  tent  of  the  Ar- 
menian Khadra,  you  shout  aloud  to  astonish  Mac- 
Whirter, 

"  I  will  take  some  savage  womaa,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race." 

But  as  the  day  draws  forward,  and  you  see  the 
same  forms  and  the  same  life  that  Abraham  saw, 
and  know  that  Joseph  leading  Mary  into  Egypt 
might  pass  you  to-day,  nor  be  aware  of  more  than 
a  single  sunset  since  he  passed  before,  then  you  feel 
that  this  germ,  changeless  at  home,  is  only  developed 
elsewhere,  that  the  boundless  desert  freedom  is  only 
a  resultless  romance. 

The  sun  sets  and  the  camp  is  pitched.  The 
shadows  are  grateful  to  your  eye,  as  the  dry  air  to 
your  lungs. 

But  as  you  sit  quietly  in  the  tent-door,  watching 
the  Armenian  camp  and  the  camels,  your  cheek 
pales  suddenly  as  you  remember  Abraham,  and  that 
"  he  sat  in  the  tent-door  in  the  heat  of  the  day." 
Saving  yourself,  what  of  the  scene  is  changed  since 


62  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

then  ?  The  desert,  the  camels,  the  tents,  the  tur- 
banned  Arabs,  they  were  what  Abraham  saw  when 
"  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  looked,  and  lo !  three 
men  stood  by  him." 

You  are  contemporary  with  the  eldest  history. 
Your  companions  are  the  dusky  figures  of  vaguest 
tradition.  The  "long  result  of  time"  is  not  for 
you. 

In  that  moment  you  have  lost  your  birthright. 
You  are  Ishmael's  brother.  You  have  your  morn- 
ing's wish.  A  child  of  the  desert,  not  for  you  are 
art,  and  poetry,  and  science,  and  the  glowing  roll 
of  history  shrivels  away. 

The  dream  passes  as  the  day  dies,  and  to  the 
same  stars  which  heard  your  morning  shout  of  de- 
sert praise,  you  whisper  as  you  close  the  tent-door 
at  evening, 

"  Better  fifty  years  of  Europe,  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 


tJNIVERS 


SITT^ 


IX. 

INTO   THE  DESERT. 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  day  from  Cairo  that 
we  stretched  fairly  away  from  the  green  land  into 
the  open  desert. 

At  one  point  which,  like  a  cape,  extended  into 
the  sand,  we  had  crossed  the  cultivation  of  the  Nile- 
valley,  and  had  rested  under  the  palms — and,  0  woe ! 
in  a  treacherous  spot  of  that  green  way,  whether  it 
was  angry  that  we  should  again  return  after  so 
fair  a  start,  or  whether  it  was  too  enamored  of 
Khadra  to  suffer  her  to  depart,  yet,  at  high  noon, 
in  crossing  a  little  stream  over  which  the  other 
camels  gallantly  passed,  the  beasts  that  bore  her 
palanquin  tottered  and  stumbled,  then  fell  mired 
upon  the  marge  of  the  stream,  and  the  bulky  pa- 
lanquin, rolling  like  a  foundering  ship,  gradually 
subsided  into  the  mud  and  water,  and  the  fair  Arme- 
nian was  rescued  and  drawn  ashore  by  her  camel- 
driver. 

The  Howadji,  who  were  sauntering  leisurely 
behind,  perceiving  the  catastrophe,  crossed  the 
stream  rapidly,  and   gaining  the  spot,  poured  out 


64  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

profuse  offers  of  aid  and  expressions  of  sympathy, 
while  Khadra  looked  curiously  at  them  with  her 
large,  dreamy  eyes,  and  smiled  at  the  strange  sound 
of  their  voices. 

We  halted  for  a  few  moments  in  the  wretched 
little  village,  and  stood  out  into  the  desert  again  in 
the  early  afternoon.  Pausing  at  a  little  canal  of 
Nile  water  to  refill  barrels  and  bottles,  the  camels 
were  allowed  to  drink  their  last  draught,  until  we 
should  reach  El  Harish. 

The  desert  was  a  limitless  level  of  smooth,  grav- 
elled sand,  stretching  on  all  sides  among  the  tufted 
shrubs,  like  spacious  well-rolled  garden-walks.  It 
had  the  air  of  a  boundless  garden  carefully  kept. 
"  And  now,"  said  the  Pacha,  "  begins  the  true 
desert. 

Farther  and  farther  fell  the  palms  behind  us,  and 
at  length  the  green  earth  was  but  a  vague  western 
belt — a  darkish  hedge  of  our  garden.  Upon  the 
hard  sand  the  camel-paths  were  faintly  indicated, 
like  cattle-paths  upon  a  sandy  field.  They  went 
straight  away  to  the  horizon,  and  vanished  like  a 
railway  track. 

The  sun  lay  warm  upon  my  back,  and  with  sud- 
den suspicion  I  turned  to  look  at  him,  as  a  child 
upon  an  ogre  who  is  gently  urging  him  on.  For- 
ward and  forward  upon  those  faint,  narrow  desert 


INTO    THE    DESERT.  65 

tracks  should  we  pass  into  the  very  region  of  his 
wrath  !  Here  would  he  smite  us  terribly  with  the 
splendor  of  his  scorn,  and  wither  and  consume  these 
audacious  citizens  who  had  come  out  against  him 
with  blue  cotton  umbrellas  ! 

In  that  moment,  excited  as  I  was  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  out  of  sight  of  land  upon  the 
desert,  I  laughed  a  feeble  laugh  at  my  own  feeble- 
ness, and  all  the  tales  of  exposure  and  peril  in  the 
wilderness  that  I  had  ever  read  returned  with  direful 
distinctness,  flooding  my  mind  with  awe. 

As  we  advanced,  the  surface  of  the  desert  was 
somewhat  broken,  and  the  ridges  of  sand  were  en 
chanted  by  the  sun  and  shadow  into  the  semblance 
of  rose-hued  cliffs,  based  with  cool,  green  slopes.  It 
was  a  simple  effect  but  of  the  extreraest  beauty  ;  and 
my  heart,  moved  by  the  sun's  pleasant  pictures, 
deemed  him  no  more  an  ogre. 

— "  Do  you  see  the  mirage  ?"  asked  the  Pacha, 
turning  upon  El  Shiraz,  and  pointing  to  a  seeming 
reach  of  water. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  admit  no  mirage  which  is  not  per- 
fect deception.     That's  clearly  sand." 

**  True,"  returned  the  Pacha ;  *'  but  yet  it  is  a 
very  good  mirage." 

We  jogged  on  until  we  reached  it,  and  found  a  fair 
little  lake. 


66  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

*  Yes,"  said  the  Pacha  without  turning,  "that's 
clearly  sand." 

At  every  tuft  of  shrub  the  camels  tried  to  browse, 
and,  sometimes  permitting  MacWhirter  to  tarry 
and  dally  with  the  dry  green,  I  fell  far  behind  the 
caravan,  that  held  its  steady  way  toward  the  hori- 
zon. 

Then  returned  the  sense  of  solitude,  and  all  the 
more  deeply  because  the  sky  was  of  that  dark,  dense 
blue — from  the  contrast  with  the  shining  sand — 
which  I  had  only  seen  amongst  the  highest  peaks  of 
Switzerland,  contrasted  with  the  snow,  as  on  the 
glacier  of  the  Aar  beneath  the  Finster  Aarhorn.  In 
that  Arabian  day,  remembering  Switzerland,  I  lifted 
my  eyes,  and  seconded  by  the  sun,  I  saw  the  drifts 
of  pure  sand,  like  drifts  of  Alpine  snow.  The  lines 
and  sweeps  were  as  sharp  and  delicate,  and  the  dark 
shadows  whose  play  is  glorious  upon  this  wide  race- 
course of  the  winds,  made  the  farther  ridges  like 
green  hills.  Then,  because  the  shrubs  pushed  up  so 
frequefttly,  the  desert  was  but  a  cultivated  country, 
overdrifted  with  sand. 

At  sunset  we  reached  a  solitary  palm-grove,  an 
oasis  in  the  waste,  and  the  camp  was  pitched  be- 
neath the  trees.  The  Germans  were  not  far  away, 
but  they,  like  the  Cairene  merchant,  concluded  that 
we  were  Ingleez  Howadji,  but,  unlike  him,  did  not 


INTO     THE     DESERT.  67 

expose  themselves  to  our  civilities.  Strangers  are 
now  as  little  likely  to  make  social  overtures  to  John 
Bull  as  he  is  to  receive  them. 

The  palms  were  shrubby  and  scant.  But  the  stars 
were  bright  among  their  boughs  as  we  looked  from 
the  tent  door — and  as  the  Pacha  wrapped  himself  in 
his  capote  and  lay  down  to  sleep,  I  asked  him  what 
the  Prophet  said  of  palms. 

In  reply  the  Pacha  said  disagreeable  things  of  the 
Prophet.  But  the  learned  say,  that  his  favorite 
fruits  were  fresh  dates  and  water-melons.  Honor, 
said  he,  your  paternal  aunt  the  date-palm,  for  she 
was  created  of  the  earth  of  which  Adam  was  formed. 
Whoso  eateth,  said  the  Prophet,  a  mouthful  of 
water-melon,  God  writeth  for  him  a  thousand  good 
works  and  cancelleth  a  thousand  evil  works,  and 
raiseth  him  a  thousand  degrees,  for  it  came  from 
paradise. 

— "  Golden  Sleeve,"  said  the  Pacha,  with  slum- 
berous vagueness — "  water-melons  for  breakfast." 


MIRAGEe 

Henry  Maundrell  having  been  shut  out  all 
mght  from  a  shekh's  house  in  Syria,  during  a  pelt- 
ing rain,  revenged  himself  the  next  morning  by  re- 
cording that  the  three  great  virtues  of  the  Moham- 
medan religion  are  a  long  beard,  prayers  of  the 
same  standard,  and  a  kind  of  Pharisaical  super- 
ciliousness. 

Our  uninvited  guest,  the  shekh's  father,  possess- 
ed those  virtues  in  perfection.  Enjoying  our  escort, 
eating  our  food,  warming  himself  at  our  fire,  the 
testy  old  gentleman  evidently  thought  that  our  in- 
fidel presences  cumbered  the  earth,  and  soiled  by 
contact  his  own  Muslim  orthodoxy.  He  was  there- 
fore perpetually  flinging  himself  upon  his  little 
donkey  and  shambling  toward  the  horizon,  with  a 
sniff  of  disgust,  to  air  his  virtue  from  further  conta- 
gion in  the  pure  desert  atmosphere.  We  were  as 
continually  overhauling  him  turned  up  against  a 
wind-sheltered  sand  bank,  and,  in  meditative  soli- 
tude, smoking  our  choice  Latakia. 


MIRAGE.  69 

It  was  our  daily  amusement  to  watch  the  old 
ishmael,  whose  mind  and  life  were  like  the  desert 
around  us,  putting  contemptuously  away  from  us 
upon  his  tottering  donkey,  his  withered  ancles  and 
clumsy  shoes  dangling  along  over  the  sand — away 
from  us,  stately  travellers  upon  MacWhirter  and  El 
Shiraz,  for  whom  Shakespeare  sang,  and  Plato 
thought,  and  Raphael  painted,  and  to  whom  the  old 
Ishmael's  country,  its  faith,  and  its  history,  were  but 
incidents  in  the  luxury  of  life. 

Yet  Ishmael  maintained  the  balance  well,  and 
never  relaxed  his  sniffing  contempt  for  the  Howadji, 
who,  in  turn,  mused  upon  the  old  man,  and  figured 
the  strange  aspect  of  his  mind. 

Like  a  bold  bare  landscape  it  must  have  been,  or 
rather  like  the  skeleton  of  a  landscape.  For  Ishmael 
was  not  true  Bedoueen  enough  to  have  clothed  the 
naked  lines  and  cliffs  of  his  mind  with  the  verdure 
of  romantic  reverie.  At  evening  he  did  not  listen 
to  the  droning  talk  of  the  other  Arabs  over  the  fire, 
but  curled  himself  up  in  his  blankets,  and  went  to 
sleep.  By  day  he  sought  solitude  and  dozed  in  his 
own  smoke,  and  whenever  he  spoke  it  was  in  the 
querulous  tone  of  soured  old  age. 

His  whole  life  had  been  a  monotonous  tale  end- 
lessly repeated.  From  Cairo  to  Gaza — from  Gaza 
to  Cairo.     As  a  boy,  tugging  the  caravan  along, 


70  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

with  the  halter  drawn  over  his  shoulder.  As  a  man, 
in  supreme  command,  superintending  the  whole. 
As  a  grandsire,  cantering  away  from  infidel  dogs  to 
smoke  their  tobacco  tranquilly  in  the  sun.  Life 
must  have  been  a  mystery  to  Ishmael  could  he  have 
ever  meditated  it,  and  the  existence  of  a  v/estern 
world,  Christians,  and  civilization,  only  explained 
by  some  vague  theory  of  gratuitous  tobacco  for  the 
faithful. 

As  I  watched  his  bright  young  grandson,  Hamed, 
leading  the  train,  I  could  not  but  ruefully  reflect 
that  the  child  is  father  of  the  man,  and  foresee  that 
he  would  only  ripen  into  an  Ishmael,  and  smoke  the 
ungrown  Latakia  of  Howadji  j^^et  unborn. 

But  through  all  speculations,  and  dreams,  and 
jokes,  and  intermittent  conversation — for  you  are 
naturally  silent  upon  the  desert — your  way  is  still 
onward  over  the  sand,  and  Jerusalem  and  Damascus 
approach  slowly,  slowly,  two  and  a  half  miles  an 
hour. 

In  the  midst  of  your  going,  a  sense  of  intense 
weariness  and  tedium  seizes  your  soul.  Rock,  rock 
— -jerk,  jerk — upon  the  camel.  You  are  sick  of  the 
thin  withered  slip  of  a  tail  in  front,  and  the  gaunt, 
stiff  movement  of  the  shapeless,  tawny  legs  before 
you,  and  you  vainly  turn  in  your  seat  for  relief  from 
the  eyes  of  Khadra — vainly,   for  the  curtains  of 


MIRAGE.  71 

the  palanquin  are  drawn  ;  the  warm  morning  sun- 
light has  been  mandragora  to  her,  and  she  is 
sleeping. 

The  horizon  is  no  longer  limitless,  and  of  an  ocean 
grandeur.  The  sluggish  path  trails  through  a  defile 
of  glaring  sand,  whose  sides  just  contemptuously 
obstruct  your  view,  and  exasperate  you  because  they 
are  low,  and  of  no  fine  outline.  Switzerland  has 
vanished  to-day,  and  the  Arabia  that  chokes 
your  eye  is  Arabia  Felix  no  longer.  Your  brow 
flushes  and  your  tongue  is  parched,  and  leering  over 
the  rim  of  the  monotonous  defile,  fever  points  at 
you,  mockingly,  its  long,  lank  finger,  and  scornfully, 
as  to  a  victim  not  worth  the  wooing.  Suffocated  in 
the  thick,  hot  air,  the  sun  smites  you,  and  its  keen 
arrows  dart  upward,  keener,  from  the  ground.  The 
drear  silence,  like  a  voice  in  nightmare,  whispers — 
"  You  dared  to  tempt  me ;"  and  with  fresh  fury  of 
shining,  and  a  more  stifling  heat,  the  horrors  of  the 
mid-desert  encompass  you. 

But  in  the  midst  of  your  weariness  and  despair, 
more  alluring  than -the  mirage  of  cool  lakes  and 
green  valleys  to  the  eye  of  the  dying  Bedoueen,  a 
voice  of  running  waters  sings  through  your  memory 
— the  sound  of  streams  gurgling  under  the  village 
bridge  at  evening,  and  the  laughter  of  boys  bathing 
there — yourself  a   boy,    yourself  plunging   in   the 


72  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

deep,  dark  coolness — and  so,  wearied  and  fevered  in 
the  desert  of  Arabia,  you  are  overflowed  by  the 
memory  of  your  youth,  and  to  you,  as  to  Khadra, 
the  sun  has  been  mandragora,  and  you  are  sleeping. 

You  cannot  tell  how  long  you  sleep  and  doze. 
You  fancy,  when  your  eyes  at  length  open,  that 
you  are  more  deeply  dreaming. 

For  the  pomp  of  a  wintry  landscape  dazzles  your 
awaking.  The  sweeps  and  drifts  of  the  sand-hills 
among  which  you  are  winding,  have  the  sculptur- 
esque grace  of  snow.  They  descend  in  strange  corru- 
gations to  a  long  level  lake — a  reach  of  water  frozen 
into  transparent  blue  ice,  streaked  with  white  sifted 
snow  that  has  overblown  it.  The  seeming  lake  is 
circled  with  low,  melancholy  hills.  They  are  bare, 
like  the  rock-setting  of  solitary  m.ountain  tarns.  The 
death  of  wintry  silence  broods  over  the  whole,  but 
the  sky  is  cloudless,  and  the  sun  sits  supreme  over 
the  miraculous  landscape.  Vainly  you  rally  your 
thoughts,  and  smile  at  the  perfect  mirage.  Its  lines 
do  not  melt  in  your  smiles,  and  the  spectacle  be- 
comes more  solemn  in  the  degree  that  you  are 
conscious  of  the  delusion.  Never,  upon  its  eternal 
Alpine  throne — never,  through  the  brief,  brilliant 
days  of  New-England  December,  was  winter  more 
evident  and  entire. 

And  when  you  hear  behind  you,  sole  sound   in 


MIRAGE.  73 

the  desert,  the  shrill  tenor  of  the  Armenian's  camel- 
driver,  chanting  in  monotonous  refrain  songs  whose 
meaning  you  can  only  imagine,  because  Khadra 
draws  aside  the  curtains  to  listen,  and  because  you 
have  seen  that  the  tall,  swarthy  Syrian  is  enamored 
of  Khadra — then  it  is  not  Arabia,  nor  Switzerland 
nor  New  England,  but  a  wintry  glade  of  Laplanft.. 
and  a  solitary  singing  to  his  reindeer. 

This  is  not  a  dream,  nor  has  leering  fever 
touched  you  with  his  finger;  but  it  is  a  mystery 
of  the  desert.  You  have  eaten  an  apple  of  the 
Hesperides.  For  the  Bedoueen  poets  have  not 
alone  the  shifting  cloud-scenery  to  garnish  their 
romances ;  but  thus,  unconsciously  to  them,  the 
forms  of  another  landscape  and  of  another  life  than 
theirs,  are  marshalled  before  their  eyes,  and  their 
minds  are  touched  with  the  beauty  of  an  unknown 
experience. 

In  this  variety  of  aspect,  in  endless  calm,  the 
desert  surpasses  the  sea.  It  is  seldom  an  unbroken 
level,  and  from  the  quality  of  its  atmosphere,  slight 
objects  are  magnified,  and  a  range  of  mounds  will 
often  masque  as  a  group  of  goodly  hills.  Even  in 
the  most  interrupted  reaches,  the  horizon  is  rarely 
a  firm  line,  but  the  mirage  breaks  it,  so  that  the 
edge  of  the  landscape  is  always  quivering  and  un- 
certain. 
4 


74  THE    HOWADJI    IN  SYRIA. 

Pleasant,  after  the  wild  romance  of  such  a  desert 
day — romance,  which  the  sun  in  setting  closes — to 
reach  the  camping-ground,  to  gurgle  in  MacWhir- 
ter's  ear  with  the  guttural  harshness  that  he  under- 
stands as  the  welcome  signal  of  rest,  and  to  feel 
him,  not  without  a  growl  of  ill-humor,  quaking 
and  rolling  beneath  you,  and  finally,  with  a  half- 
sudden  start,  sinking  to  the  ground. 

You  tie  his  bent  fore-knee  together,  wnth  the 
halter  which  goes  around  his  head ;  and  you  turn 
to  see  that  the  tent  is  not  spread  over  stones,  which 
would  not  stuff  your  pillow  softly.  Then,  return- 
ing, you  observe  that  MacWhirter  with  his  fore-leg 
still  bent  and  bound  to  his  head,  is  limping  upon 
the  three  serviceable  legs  to  browse  upon  chance 
shrubs,  and  to  assert  his  total  independence  of  you, 
and  contempt  of  your  precautions. 

Meanwhile,  Khadra  steps  out  of  her  palanquin, 
and  while  her  father's  camp  is  pitched,  she  shakes 
out  the  silken  fullness  of  her  shintyan,  and  strolls 
off  upon  the  desert.  The  old  Armenian  slips  the 
pad  from  the  back  of  his  white  mare,  for  he  does 
not  ride  in  a  saddle,  and  stands  in  everybody's 
way,  in  his  long,  blue  broadcloth  kaftan,  taking 
huge  pinches  of  snuff. 

The  commander,  relieved  of  his  arsenal,  bustles 
among  our  Arabs,  swearing  at  them  lustily  when- 


MIRAGE  76 

ever  he  approaches  the  Hv)waclji,  apparently  con- 
vinced that  everything  is  going  v^ell,  so  long  as  he 
makes  noise  enough. 

"  Therein  not  peculiar,"  murmurs  the  Pacha, 
rolled  up  in  his  huge  woollen  capote,  and  smoking 
a  contemplative  chibouque. 

The  tents  are  pitched,  the  smoke  curls  to  the 
sky,  and  the  hoveling  wilderness  is  tamed  by  the 
domestic  preparations  of  getting  tea. 

The  sun  also  is  tamed,  our  great  romancer,  our 
fervent  poet,  our  glorious  painter,  who  has  made 
the  day  a  poem  and  a  picture ;  who  has  peopled 
memory  with  sweet  and  sad  imagery ;  who,  like 
Jesus,  brought  a  sword,  yet  like  him,  has  given  us 
rest.  He,  too,  is  tamed,  and  his  fervor  is  failing. 
Yet  as  he  retires  through  the  splendor  of  the 
vapory  architecture  of  his  pavilion  in  the  West, 
he  looks  at  us  once  more,  like  a  king  from  his  pal- 
ace windows. 


XI. 

UNDER  THE  SYRIAN  STARS. 

So  glides  away  the  slow  caravan  of  desert  days. 

But  when  they  have  passed  over  the  western  ho- 
rizon, out  of  the  east  come  the  soft-footed  evening 
hours.  The  camels  are  tethered,  the  Arabs  crone 
over  the  fire,  one  bursts  into  a  wailing  minor  song. 
The  night  swallows  the  sound,  and  only  the  stars 
shine. 

And  even  as  you  might  vaguely  discern  the  sheen 
of  Persian  silks,  and  scent  the  odor  of  rare  fruits  in 
a  caravan  from  Bagdad,  passing  your  camp  in  the 
moonlight,  so  through  the  twilight  of  reverie  pass 
the  stately  forms  of  noble  thoughts,  and  the  night 
is  perfumed  with  hopes  that  love  the  future. 

—  Like  a  night  of  meditation  after  a  busy  day,  is 
the  desert  journey  after  our  busy  life. 

And  still,  as  in  midnight  musings,  wherever  you 
may  be,  your  whole  individual  experience  lies  be- 
fore you  like  a  transparent  lake,  into  which  you 
look  and  see  the  coral  and  pearl  of  your  childhood 
lying  unchanged  at  the  bottom,  and  above  them, 


UNDER    THE    SY1^1A^     STARS.  77 

like  gold  fish  that  gleam  and  go,  the  restless  ambi- 
tions of  your  youth — and  floating  upon  the  surface, 
the  chips  and  weeds  and  fading  flowers,  like  the 
chances  of  your  present  life  —  even  so  do  they 
recur  to  you  in  your  desert  separation  from  your 
ordinary  career,  and  there  you  can  measure  them 
and  compare. 

Under  the  Syrian  stars,  measuring,  without  the 
struggle  of  contact,  the  purposes  of  life,  you  renew 
your  vows  to  the  truth  which  life  forgets;  and 
dedicate  anew  to  the  unknown  God,  the  altar  of 
your  heart  that  was  sadly  overgrown. 

That,  be  sure,  is  "the  improvement"  of  this  long 
sermon  in  the  wilderness.  That  is  its  permanent  use 
to  you  as  a  man,  however  its  picturesque  and  resplen- 
dent illustrations  may  have  pleased  you  as  a  scholar 
and  a  poet.  At  that  distance  from  the  Babylons 
in  which  your  life  is  led,  and  in  which  the  building 
of  Babels  goes  on  so  zealously,  you  can  better  esti- 
mate the  aims  and  rewards  and  cordons  Metis,  promised 
by  the  builders  to  all  diligent  workmen. 

Under  the  Syrian  stars  you  can  touch  the  earth 
again  and  renew  your  strength. 

Knowing  that  the  reputations  and  the  cordons  hleus 
are  not  awarded  to  the  sincere,  but  to  the  success- 
ful, are  you  ready  to  serve  the  veiled  goddess — the 
inscrutable  Isis — and  let  success  go  ? 


78  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

But  if  it  is  hard  to  say  so  here,  where  the  shackles 
of  custom  are  loosened — hard,  although  your  whole 
heart  should  cry  within  you,  as  Hamlet's  father, 
from  the  ground,  "swear!" — yet  how  much  harder 
will  it  be  when  these  stars  have  set  to  you  forever, 
and  you  are  again  confronted  with  our  immitigable 
Mammon. 

We  love  success,  but  who  are  the  successful? 

Cresus,  or  Plato,  or  Napoleon? 

For  though  a  man  should  heap  up  millions,  if  he 
cannot  use  it — if  it  go  foolishly,  and  the  world  is 
not  alleviated — if  he  be  his  own  pander  and  not 
God's  almoner,  then  money  is  but  a  cumbrous  armor, 
which  he  has  rivetted  ut)on  his  limbs  and  which 
prevents  his  fighting. 

Success  is  something  more,  I  dream  in  the  desert, 
than  gratified  vanity  or  the  applause  of  toadies  and 
zanies. 

It  is  sad  to  see  the  poets  shrink  before  the  so- 
called  practical  men,  because  it  is  an  image  of  the 
triumph  of  sense  and  of  material  things.  I  do  not 
quarrel  with  the  violet  that  it  is  not  a  rose.  That 
a  man  has  no  love  of  letters,  or  of  science,  or  of  art, 
is  no  reproach  to  him  ;  it  is  a  misfortune.  But  that 
he  regards  those  who  have  those  loves  as  unwise, 
dreamy  and  inpracticable  men,  is  the  mole's  com- 
plaint of  the  eagle.     Tasso  skulked  about  the  garden 


UNDEK    THE    SYRIAN    STARS,  79 

of  the  villa  d'Este,  reproved  by  the  sharp  common 
sense  of  the  Duke.  But  if  you  rebuke  Tasso  for 
skulking,  do  not  forget  that  it  was  only  the  awk 
wardness  of  a  young  nobleman  before  his  exact  and 
accomplished  valet — as  I  remember  seeing  a  gentle- 
man unused  to  clubs,  confused  in  a  London  Club 
House,  by  the  bland  assurance  of  the  smooth  flunkey 
at  the  door. 

— Who,  then,  are  the  successful? 

Was  Shakespeare  successful  because  he  was  the 
greatest  of  poets,  and  sowed  those  twilight  groves 
of  meditation  in  which  all  men  love  to  walk  ?  I 
fear  no  more  than  the  gardener,  who  is  putting  in 
young  saplings  to-day,  under  which,  in  a  century, 
his  descendents  shall  play. 

— Or  Michael  Angelo?  But  history  shows  no 
sadder  m.an.  Or  Beethoven,  or  Mozart,  or  the  last 
new  poet  whom  the  papers  praise  ? 

Once  more  remember  the  city  to  which  you  are 
going.  Was  he  who  entered  it  amid  hosannas  and 
under  waving  palm  boughs,  successful  ?  Who  shall 
dare  to  say?  This  much,  at  least,  is  clear,  that  none 
of  these  achieved  what  would  be  called  success,  in 
any  of  the  Babylons  in  which  we  live,  not  in  Lon- 
don or  Paris,  not  in  Vienna  or  New  York. 

Success  is  a  delusion.  It  is  an  attainment — but 
who  attains  ?     It  is  the  horizon  always  bounding 


80  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

our  path,  and  therefore  never  gained.  The  pope, 
triple-crowned,  and  borne,  with  flabella,  through 
St.  Peter's,  is  not  successful ;  for  he  might  be  canon- 
ized into  a  saint.  Pygmalion,  before  his  perfect 
statue,  is  not  successful ;  for  it  might  live.  Raphael, 
finishing  the  Sistine  Madonna,  is  not  successful,  for 
her  beauty  has  revealed  to  him  a  fairer  and  an  un- 
attainable beauty.  The  merchant  is  not  successful, 
for  there  is  no  end  to  making  money ;  nor  the  last 
new  poet — because,  if  he  be  a  poet,  he  knows  that 
he  cannot  write  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

Life,  say  the  wise  and  the  elders,  grows  sadder 
and  sadder,  and  age  strips  it  of  delusions  as  autumn 
winds  strip  the  trees.  Sir  Horace  Walpole,  the 
artificial  man  of  an  artificial  age,  who  bad  been 
fortunate,  as  few  men  are,  said  in  his  decline : 
"Life  is  a  comedy  to  those  who  think,  and  a  tra- 
gedy to  those  who  feel ;"  and  again,  more  bitterly : 
"Life  is  a  farce,  and  its  last  scene  should  not  be 
mournful."  As  if  no  man  could  live  and  occupy  his 
just  place  in  men's  regards,  Lord  Bacon  says : 
"Death  hath  this  also,  that  it  openeth  the  gate  to 
good  fame  and  extinguisheth  envy."  And,  although 
admitting  that  a  man  may  obtain  "worthy  ends  and 
expectations  " — he  adds,  with  alluring  music :  "  But, 
above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest  canticle  is  Nunc 
dimittisP 


UNDER    THE    SYRIAN    STARS.  81 

From  Solomon  to  the  last  book  I  read,  the  refrain 
is  the  same :  *'  Vanity  of  vanities,"  says  he,  and 
my  author  echoes — "  Like  all  lives  this  is  a  tragedy  ; 
high  hopes,  noble  efforts  ;  under  thickening  difficul- 
ties and  impediments ;  ever  new  nobleness  of  valiant 
effort,  and  the  result,  death,  with  conquests  by  no 
means  corresponding." 

The  night-wind  howls  mockingly  into  the  desert, 
**  Success,  success !" — and  its  echo  in  your  heart  is 
that  sad  story  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  When  an 
old  man,  he  was  standing  one  day  before  one  of  his 
early  pictures,  lost  in  pensive  thought :  '*  I  was 
thinking,"  said  he,  "  of  the  promise  of  this  picture, 
which  I  can  never  fulfill !" 

As  you  draw  the  tent-curtain  and  shut  out  the 
stars,  you  will  swear  by  them  to  honor  no  more 
than  is  honorable,  the  practical  talent  that  rules  the 
world ;  and  for  the  motto  of  your  dreams,  you  will 
choose  the  wise  old  Chinese  proverb  :  "  The  world's 
nonsense  is  the  sense  of  God." 
4* 


XII. 
A  TRUCE. 

The  faithful  reader  who  has  clung  with  me  to 
MacWhirter  up  to  this  chapter,  may,  if  he  will,  re- 
gard the  eleventh  whence  he  has  just  emerged  as  an 
evening  vapor  rolling  over  the  desert,  and  settling 
for  awhile  upon  our  camp. 

But,  as  it  disperses,  and  the  day  breaks,  and  we 
are  about  to  mount  again,  I  say  to  him  that  the  re- 
cord of  a  desert  journey  must  needs  be  more  of  sen- 
sation than  of  sight.  With  ink  and  types,  which 
allow  no  perspective,  no  light,  and  shade,  and  color, 
only  the  pictures  can  be  painted  to  which  such 
means  are  competent.  Therefore,  how  can  the 
traveller  most  vividly  figure  to  the  reader  who  is  not 
a  student  of  some  especial  point,  the  regions  of 
which  he  tells. 

Statistics  hardly  suffice.  The  golden  ball  of  St. 
Peter's  is  four  hundred  and  ninety -four  feet  from  the 
pavement.  But  that  statement,  even  supported  by 
the  fact  that  the  breadth  of  the  fagade  is  more  than 
four  hundred  feet,  does  not  leave  St.  Peter's  a  per- 


A    TRUCE.  83 

marient  figure  in  the  mind.  Nor  does  the  ingenious 
combination  with  those  truths  of  the  consideration 
that  the  great  nave  is  fretted  with  gold,  and  that 
the  four  huge  piers  which  support  the  dome  are 
faced  with  marble,  and  that  the  baldacchino  or 
canopy  over  the  high  altar  is  of  bronze,  stripped 
by  a  pope  from  the  Pantheon,  impress  the  mind 
with  what  it  wishes  to  know  of  St.  Peter's. 

But  the  impression  of  all  this  wonderful  architec- 
tural combination,  and  the  associations  which 
wreathe  it,  in  a  judicious  and  sensitive  mind,  with 
invisible  ornaments  of  an  unknown  grace,  if  accu- 
rately reproduced  by  the  pen,  shall  build  St.  Peter's 
again,  and  found  it  deep  in  your  mind  forever. 

Is  it  not  strange,  even  allowing  all  that  I  have 
previously  claimed  for  travellers  who  tell  their 
travels,  that  their  books  are  so  cold  and  spectral  ? 

Before  and  after  I  went  to  the  East,  I  read  the 
numberless  volumes  that  record  the  many  eastern 
tours  of  learned  and  poetic  men.  But  the  most, 
either  despairing  of  imparting  the  true  oriental  flavor 
to  their  works,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  eastern  en- 
thusiasm must  needs  exhale  in  the  record,  as  the 
Neapolitans  declare  that  the  Lachrymce,  Christi  can 
have  the  genuine  flavor  only  in  the  very  Vesuvian 
vineyard  where  it  grows — or  hugging  some  forlorn 
hope  that  the  reader's  imagination  will  warm  the 


84  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYKIA. 

dry  bones  of  detail  into  life — most  of  the  travellers 
write  their  books  as  bailiffs  take  an  inventory  of 
attached  furniture. — Item.  One  great  pyramid,  four 
hundred  and  ninety-eight  feet  high. — Item.  One 
tomb  in  a  rock,  with  two  bushels  of  mummy  dust. 
— Item.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  over  a  de- 
sert.— Item.  One  grotto  at  Bethlehem,  and  con- 
tents— to  wit:  ten  golden  lamps,  twelve  silver 
ditto,  twenty  yards  of  tapestry,  and  a  marble  pave- 
ment. And  with  this  ghostly  dance  of  death 
shaken  before  our  eyes,  we  are  invited  to  contem- 
plate the  gorgeous  pageant  of  oriental  life. 

The  reader,  surely,  will  not  suspect  me  of  slight- 
ing the  claims  of  exact  knowledge.  Scientific  re- 
search embodies  its  results  in  concise  and  colorless 
pages.  Its  aim  is  to  state  a  fact,  not  to  impart  an 
impression.  The  latter,  however,  is  the  object  of  a 
general  book  of  travels,  and  the  facts  must  yield 
only  their  juice  and  their  aroma  to  the  traveller,  if 
he  would  share  his  pleasure  with  others.  Guide- 
books are  not  absorbingly  interesting,  and  give 
small  idea  of  the  countries  they  describe.  Guide- 
books are  indispensable  to  the  traveller,  but  they 
are  surely  not  the  standard  of  his  own  account  of 
the  objects  of  which  they  give  him  the  locality. 

Look  at  Lewis's  Egyptian  pictures,  even  at 
Horace  Vernet's  ideally  conventional  paintings  of 


A    TRUCE.  85 

eastern  life,  and  revelling  in  the  luxuiy  of  their 
color  and  form,  consider  what  books  men  have 
written  of  these  things.  Keflect,  that  if  Lewis  and 
Vernet  were  using  the  means  of  Titian  and  Claude, 
the  book-writers  professed  to  use  those  of  Shake- 
speare and  Shelley.  The  Arabian  Nights  and  Hafiz 
are  more  valuable  for  their  practical  communication 
of  the  spirit  and  splendor  of  oriental  life,  than  all 
the  books  of  eastern  travel  ever  written,  of  which, 
for  the  general  reader,  Eothen  is  certainly  the  best, 
being  brilliant,  picturesque,  humorous,  and  poetic. 
Yet  Eothen  is  still  a  cockney — never  puts  off  the 
Englishman,  and  is  suspicious  of  his  own  enthu- 
siasm, which,  therefore,  sounds  a  little  exaggerated. 

— The  caravan  is  not  yet  out  of  sight,  gracious 
reader,  we  shall  overtake  it  at  a  bound  when  we 
will ;  let  MacWhirter,  therefore,  browse,  while  I 
hold  you  here  a  moment  longer. 

It  confirms  the  tenor  of  our  thought  in  this  chap- 
ter, that  the  most  satisfactory  impressions  of  places 
we  have  never  seen  are  derived  from  poetry.  I 
would  also  say,  in  some  cases,  from  music ;  for  I 
know  no  song,  no  book,  no  picture,  so  utterly  and 
exquisitely  Venetian,  as  the  Gondola-lied  of  Men- 
delssohn. If  the  listener  truly  hear  that,  he  knows 
what  Venice  truly  is. 

In  Rome  you  find  yourself  repeating  Byron  and 


86  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Goethe's  hexameters,  then,  when  you  most  feel 
Rome,  ani  in  Venice  it  is  Byron  again,  and  the  un- 
metred  poetry  of  Beckford,  whose  lines  recur.  It 
is  not,  I  believe,  so  much  because  they  treat  of  the 
objects  you  are  seeing,  as  because  they  seem  to  you 
the  natural,  the  poetic,  and  therefore,  most  profound, 
suggestions  of  the  character  of  the  place.  And  in 
the  same  way,  as  you  advance  through  the  Syrian 
summer,  the  fragrant  and  voluptuous  imagery  of 
Solomon's  song  is  the  most  felicitous  expression  of 
your  experience  there. 

The  reason  of  this  is,  surely,  that  the  permanent 
interest  of  various  lands  is  intellectual.  We  like 
them  for  what  they  are  to  us,  rather  than  for  what 
they  are  in  themselves.  Yet  we  cannot  know  what 
they  are,  nor  assimilate  them  to  our  own  advantage, 
unless  we  are  steeped  in  their  spirit.  We  must  be 
Egyptian,  Syrian,  Greek,  Roman,  or  we  shall  never 
know  what  Egypt,  Syria,  Greece,  and  Rome  mean. 

Hence  arises  the  abiding  charm  of  books  of  travel, 
which  are  faithful  records  of  individual  experience, 
under  the  condition,  always,  that  the  individual  has 
something  characteristic  and  dramatic  in  his  organi- 
zation ;  that  he  is  heroic  in  adventure,  or  of  grace- 
ful and  accurate  cultivation — the  fundamental  con- 
dition being,  of  course,  that  there  is  a  sympathy  be- 
tween the  nature  of  the  man  and  the  country  he  visits. 


A    TEUCE  87 

Aubrey  de  Vere's  Picturesque  Sketches  of  Greece 
and  Turkey,  and  Alexander  Henry's  Adventures  in 
Canada,  are  models  of  the  heroic  and  the  scholarly 
books  of  travel.  And,  as  the  view  taken  by  a  hu- 
morous genius  of  subjects  with  v^^hich  it  has  little 
sympathy,  are  genuinely  comic  and  therefore  valu- 
able, Dickens'  Pictures  from  Italy  is  a  very  enter- 
taining book. 

— ^MacWhirter  is  disappearing;  but  I  have  one 
more  word. 

Akin  to  what  we  are  saying,  and  indirectly  illus- 
trating its  truth,  is  the  fact  that  we  learn  more  of 
what  we  wish  to  know  of  past  times,  namely,  of 
the  aspect  of  their  life  and  character,  from  the  ro- 
mance of  history  than  from  history  itself. 

The  man  who  knew  no  more  of  English  history 
than  Shakespeare  had  taught  him,  was  not  ignorant. 
Scott,  in  Kenilworth  and  the  Talisman,  makes  us 
free  not  only  of  the  courts  of  Elizabeth  and  of  the 
lion-hearted  Richard,  but  of  their  times  as  well. 
And  with  us,  Hawthorne  has  made  appreciable  in 
most  living  reality  the  Puritan  spirit  and  form  of 
early  New  England,  as  Irving,  in  his  Knickerbocker 
and  Hudson  stories,  makes  the  reader  a  burgher  of 
New  Amsterdam. 

These  men,  these  poets,  are  but  travellers  into 
the  dusky  realms  of  the  past,  whom  the  genius  of 


88  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

the  past  graciously  receives  and  authorizes  to  speak 
for  him. 

— MacWhirter  is  fairly  out  of  sight ' 

Such,  heroic  reader — of  this  kind,  must  be  your 
story  of  the  desert,  if  you  hope  that  those  distant 
friends  will  see  what  you  are  seeing.  If  you  think 
otherwise,  let  us  here  courteously  part  company, 
and  you  shall  retire  in  goodly  society. 

John  Carnes,  Esq.,  and  Lord  Castlereagh,  and 
Volney — Ali  Bey,  and  Richardson,  and  Clarke,  and 
W.  G.  Browne,  that  "  model  for  travellers,"  and  a 
Xerxes-host  of  quartos,  octavos,  and  duodecimos, 
will  tell  you  all  that  you  will  not  find  upon  our 
pages.  They  have  done  their  work  too  well  to 
have  left  any  necessity  of  our  doing  the  same.  The 
sights  of  this  journey  they  have  fully,  and  accu- 
rately, and  learnedly  described. 

But  we,  the  latest  of  them  all,  grateful  for  the 
services  they  have  rendered,  and  for  the  conveni- 
ence which  they  prove  to  us,  have  yet  something  to 
say  which  they  had  not,  and  that  is,  our  own  im- 
pression of  what  they  saw. 


XIII. 

OASIS. 

There  came  suddenly  a  strip  of  green  land. 

It  was  like  a  branch  of  flowers  yet  fresh,  drift- 
ing out  to  a  ship  at  sea.  The  birds  sang  clearly 
in  the  early  morning,  high  over  our  heads  flashing 
in  the  bright  air.  The  damp  sand  was  delicately 
printed  with  the  tracks  of  birds.  The  desert  lay 
around  us  in  low  hillocks,  like  the  long  billows  of  a 
retiring  ocean.  The  air  blew  fresh  and  sweet  from 
the  west.  Fresh  and  sweet,  for  it  was  the  breath 
of  the  Mediterranean. 

And  suddenly  we  came  upon  green  land. 

The  country  was  like  a  rolling  pasture.  Grass 
and  dandelions,  and  a  myriad  familiar  wild  flowers 
lay,  wreaths  of  welcome,  at  our  feet.  There  were 
clumps  of  palms  and  single  acacias.  The  cactus, 
also,  that  we  call  Indian  fig,  shapeless,  prickly,  but 
full  of  the  sun  and  fat  with  promise. 

The  wind  blew,  the  birds  sang,  the  trees  waved. 
They  were  the  outposts  of  life,  whence  it  nodded 
and  beckoned  to  us,  and  threw  us  flowers  as  we 
emerged  from  the  death  of  the  desert. 


90  THE    HOWADJI    IN    STRIA. 

It  was  a  dream  in  beauty  and  in  fleetness.  Mac- 
Whirter — incarnate  common-sense — bore  us  straight 
through  the  dream  into  the  desert  again. 

They  receded,  they  sank  into  vapory  distance, 
those  beautiful  forms — the  waving  trees,  the  singing 
birds.  Yet  they  were  Palestine,  they  the  symbols 
of  the  Holy  Land.  Promises  and  hopes,  they  sing 
and  wave  upon  the  ending  desert,  and  I  greeted 
them  as  the  mariner  in  that  ship  at  sea  greets  the 
south  and  romantic  Spain,  in  the  bough  of  blossoms 
floating  by  him. 

The  strip  of  green  land  passed,  and  we  entered 
upon  pure  Sahara.  It  was  the  softest,  most  pow- 
dery sand ;  tossed  by  light  winds  it  drew  sharp 
angles,  glittering  white  angles,  against  the  dense 
blue.  The  last  trace  of  green  vanished  as  we  passed 
deeper  among  the  ridges.  The  world  was  a  chaotic 
ocean  of  sparkling  white  sand. 

The  desert  was,  in  that  moment,  utter  and  hope- 
less desert,  but  was  never  desert  again.  Bare,  and 
still,  and  bright,  it  was  soft  beyond  expression,  in 
the  fitful  game  of  shadows  played  upon  it  by  the 
sun — for  vapors  were  gathering  overhead. 

Suddenly,  around  one  of  the  sharp  angles — and  I 
could  not,  until  then,  tell  if  it  were  near  or  far — 
suddenly  a  band  of  armed  Arabs  came  riding  to- 
wards us.     They  curvetted,  and  dashed,  and  cara- 


OASIS.  91 

coled  upon  spirited  horses,  leaping,  and  running, 
and  prancing  round  imperturbable  MacWhirter  and 
El  Shiraz,  who  plodded  sublimely  on.  The  Arabs 
came  close  to  us,  and  greeted  our  men  with  endless 
kissings  and  salaams.  They  chatted  and  called 
aloud  ;  their  weapons  flashed  and  rattled,  their  robes 
flowed  in  the  wind — then,  suddenly,  like  a  cloud  of 
birds,  they  wheeled  from  us — 

"  Tirra,  lirra !  tirra,  lirra ! 
Sang  Sir  Lancelot !" 

and  away  they  sped  over  the  horizon. 

We  plodded  on.  The  eyes  of  Khadra  smiled  de- 
light at  the  glittering  party  as  it  disappeared.  The 
Armenian's  little  white  mare  paced  toilingly  through 
the  loose  sand.  It  was  high  noon,  and,  advancing 
silently,  we  passed  over  the  near  horizon  of  the 
ridges,  and  came  upon  a  plain  of  hard  sand.  Not 
far  away  lay  a  town  of  white  stone  houses,  and  the 
square  walls  of  a  fort — and  beyond  them  all,  the 
lustrous  line  of  the  sea. 

It  was  el  Harish,  on  the  edge  of  the  desert.  The 
boys  and  girls  ran  out  and  surrounded  us  with  star- 
ing curiosity.  Some  were  running  horses,  some 
passed  on  little  donkeys,  and  others  were  unloading 
camels.  Then  came  a  swarthy-faced  official  in  tat- 
tered garments.     He  demanded  our  passports,  and 


92  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

to  him,  inly  lamenting  that  "  the  shadow  of  God 
upon  earth"  had  dwindled  to  such  as  this,  we 
delivered  them. 

Under  the  crescent  moon  the  camp  was  pitched. 
And  under  the  crescent  moon  all  Arabia  was  but  a 
sea-beach.  For  unmitigated  sand  lay  from  the 
Mediterranean  to  the  Euphrates. 

The  curious  children  flocked  out  of  the  town,  and 
w^atched,  with  profound  attention,  the  ceremonies  of 
infidel  tea-making,  and  the  dinner  of  unbelievers. 
The  muezzin  called  from  the  minaret,  and  the  chil- 
dren left  us  to  the  sky,  and  the  sand,  and  the 
sea. 

The  Mediterranean  called  to  us  through  the  dark- 
ness. The  moonlight  was  so  vague  that  the  sea 
and  the  desert  were  blent.  The  world  was  sunk 
in  mysterious  haze.  We  were  encamped,  it  seemed 
on  the  very  horizon,  and  looked  oft'  into  blank 
space. 

After  the  long  silence  of  the  desert,  it  was  strange 
to  hear  the  voice  of  the  sea.  It  was  Homer's  sea, 
the  only  sea  of  romance  and  fame ;  over  which 
Plelen  sailed  and  the  Argonauts — out  of  which  sailed 
Columbus.  It  was  St.  John's  sea  and  Alexander's 
— Hadrian's  and  the  Crusaders'.  Upon  its  shore 
stood  Carthage,  and  across  its  calm  the  Syrens 
sang. 


OASIS.  93 

These  fames  and  figures  passed.     But  the  poet's 
words  remain  ; 

"  I  love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places.,  where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  wo  wish  cur  souls  to  be." 


XIV. 

MISHAP. 

We  had  crossed  the  desert.  We  had  reached, 
once  more,  permanent  human  habitations,  although 
we  were  yet  far  from  cultivated  land.  There  was 
no  longer  any  especial  danger  of  dying  of  thirst, 
or  of  suffocation  in  the  fiery  breath  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

The  sun  rose  over  el  Harish,  in  a  white  mist. 
The  wind  blew  steadily  and  warm,  and  it  was  a 
sultry  day.  To  the  west  lay  the  sea,  like  a  band 
of  dense  blue  vapor  ;  between  the  sea  and  the  sky, 
into  the  east,  as  far  as  we  could  see,  went  the 
desert. 

The  old  shekh  mounted  his  donkey  and  gallopped 
away  toward  the  town.  We  saw  him  no  more. 
But  I  have  no  doubt  his  supply  of  tobacco  from  our 
stores  was  trebly  abundant  that  morning;  and  1 
fancy  him  still  praying  and  smoking  in  the  mosque 
of  el  Harish  ;  for  I  doubt  if  prayers  of  lesser  length 
could  have  entirely  purified  him  from  our  infidel  in- 
fection.    Hamed,  too,  left  us — the  sturdy,  bright- 


MISHAP.  95 

eyed  boy  who  had  walked  across  the  desert  tugging 
the  caravan  after  him.  We  were  all  sorry  to  part 
with  him  ;  but  I  was  grieved  that  he  did  not  seem 
sorry  to  go. 

The  Armenian  was  detained  by  some  difficulty 
with  his  camel-driver;  and  the  German  Moguls  had 
preceded  us.  Our  camels  had  gone  for  water,  and 
it  was  late  in  the  morning  when  we  lost  sight  of  the 
sea,  and  left  el  Harish.  The  country  was  a  bound- 
less, barren,  rolling  prairie,  studded  at  intervals  with 
bright  blue,  yellow,  and  white  field  flowers.  Our 
way  lay  through  a  broad,  shallow  valley — a  wadee 
or  w^ater-course.  The  low  hills  on  the  side  swere 
sandy  and  shrub-tufted,  and  in  spots,  scanty  patches 
of  grain  trembled  in  the  wind. 

Suddenly  another  group  of  horsemen,  imposing 
in  numbers,  and  rattling  and  flashing,  dashed  for- 
ward from  the  horizon  on  the  full  run,  and  wheeled, 
and  danced  around  us,  so  that  we  summoned  the 
commander  to  explain. 

He  answered,  with  great  importance,  that  a  Pacha 
of  very  remarkable  tails  was  just  in  the  rear,  with 
his  hareem  and  attendants  ;  and  that  he  was  jour- 
neying from  Damascus  to  Cairo,  being  no  less  a 
personage  than  the  collector  of  revenues  for  "  the 
Shadow  of  God  on  Earth,"  from  the  Pachalics  of 
Syria  and  Egypt. 


96  THE    H<)WADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

While  we  spoke,  the  caravan  appeared.  The 
Pacha  satin  state  in  a  palanquin,  borne  between  two 
camels,  and  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  crowd  of  arm- 
ed retainers.  Several  scores  of  camels  followed  him, 
bearing  his  wives,  slaves,  and  luggage,  and  a  body  of 
soldiers  closed  the  rear.  It  was  a  handsome  pageant 
and  passed  on. 

We  paused  to  lunch,  and  in  the  azure  distance  of 
noon,  a  group  of  gazelles  leaped  and  ran.  Only  the 
delicate  grace  of  their  play  was  outlined  upon  the 
sky.  It  was  soothing  as  a  lullaby  of  lutes,  and  as  I 
lay  in  the  warm  noon,  dozing  and  musing,  I  dream- 
ed that  the  large  eyes  of  the  Armenian  girl  were 
looking  down  upon  me  from  a  glowing  bower  upon 
a  rugged,  yellow  mountain  peak, — and  lo !  the 
beautiful  Khadra  passing  upon  her  camel. 

The  commander  tarried  behind,  when  we  mounted, 
and  we  were  swaying  along  drowsily,  as  becalmed 
ships  swing  upon  tropical  seas — I,  for  my  part,  see- 
ing wonderful  visions  in  the  moonlight  of  Khadra's 
eyes — when  suddenly  I  heard  a  half  cry,  and  the 
steady  thump  of  heavy  motion. 

Turning  immediately,  I  beheld  the  golden-sleeved 
commander  approaching,  all  too  speedily  for  his  dig- 
nity and  safety.  He  had  fallen  far  behind,  and  his 
camel.  Pomegranate,  perceived  upon  starting,  that 
the  caravan  was  vanishing  before  him,  and    that 


MISHAP.  97 

only  a  hasty  flight  would  bring  him  again  among 
his  peers.  Thereupon,  just  as  the  adipose  com- 
mander, after  lunching,  was  duly  settling  himself 
into  his  seat,  and  had  begun  somnolently  to  sm.oke, 
Pomegranate  shook  the  halter  from  his  head  by  an 
ingenious  movement,  and  set  forward  upon  the  full 
trot,  with  a  total  disregard  of  Mohammed's  digest- 
ive functions. 

He,  as  if  an  earthquake  heaved  the  mountain 
upon  which  his  city  of  refuge  was  builded,  drop- 
ped his  chibouque  and  clutched  at  the  saddle, 
moaning  and  crying  aloud  for  succor.  But  the 
implacable  and  complacent  Pomegranate,  solely 
intent  upon  joining  his  fellows,  jogged  horribly 
on.  I  saw  the  unhappy  commander  caged  in  his 
arsenal,  that  rattled  mockingly  around  him,  vio- 
lently shaking,  and  with  a  piteous  look  of  despair 
upon  his  face,  which  betrayed  his  consciousness  of 
helplessness,  and  that  he,  the  arsenal,  and  all  the 
trappings,  were  slowly  slipping  off  toward  the  tail. 

"  O  gentlemen!"  he  gasped  in  irregular  syllables, 
as  Pomegranate  inexorably  advanced. 

"  Stop  him,  Mohammed  !"  cried  the  Pacha. 

'*  Oh — damn! — non  e  j^ossibile,^^  shook  out  the 
Muslim  Pickwick,  as  he  clattered  up  in  the  rear. 

Pomegranate,  intent  upon  revenging  in  Moham 

med's   person   all   that  camels    have  ever  suffered 
5 


98  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

from  men,  would  not  stop  as  he  reached  us,  but 
pushed  sternly  on. 

"  Oh  !  gentlemen,"  groaned  Golden  Sleeve,  as 
he  slowly  and  inevitably  slid  toward  the  tail  of  his 
beast. 

But  the  gentlemen  were  faint  with  laughter,  and 
the  delicious  eyes  of  Khadra  swam  with  delight  at 
the  spectacle. 

The  crisis  came.  Weeping  bitterly  and  grasping 
at  the  carpets  upon  which  he  sat,  and  which  were 
slipping  with  him,  down  upon  the  desert  he  sank, 
a  promiscuous  heap  of  man,  weapons,  cloaks,  car- 
pets, water-bottles,  and  blankets,  and  there  he  sat 
with  legs  outstretched,  the  toes  of  his  red  slippers 
curved  up  at  the  sky,  and  wofully  staring  back 
upon  the  Howadji  and  the  Armenians,  who,  ready 
to  fall  from  their  own  camels  with  excess  of  laugh- 
ter, hurried  to  the  rescue. 

We  came  up,  and  the  commander  did  not  move. 
He  sat  upon  the  ground  pouring  out  terrific  Arabic 
oaths,  yet  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  For  with 
the  air  of  a  man  irretrievably  injured,  and  not 
deigning  us  a  solitary  glance,  he  piled  Pomegran- 
ate again  with  carpets,  and  went  forward  once 
more  with  melancholy  resignation,  to  the  other 
vicissitudes  of  life. 


XV. 

ADVENTURE. 

My  reader  is  not  heroic,  perhaps,  and  has  not 
clung  to  MacWhirter,  but  is  listlessly  turning  these 
pages  to  strike  upon  the  story  of  adventures,  even 
as  the  news-boy  in  the  pit  of  the  Chatham  falls 
asleep  at  the  opening  of  the  play  in  v^hich  Mr. 
Kirby  performs,  but  with  the  strictest  injunction 
to  his  companion  to  be  awakened  at  the  crisis  in 
the  fifth  act — "Because  I  want  to  see  him  die ;  for 
Billy  Kirby  dies  prime." 

What  is  a  desert  journey  without  adventures? 
And  what  does  the  arsenal  that  envelopes  the  com- 
mander imply  ? 

Often  we  seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  adven- 
ture. At  certain  spots,  when  evening  fell,  and  the 
camp  was  pitched,  the  sage  commander  scanned 
the  desert  suspiciously,  and  looked  solemnly  at  the 
Howadji,  whispering  with  many  shrugs,  that  this 
especial  spot  was  a  haunt  for  ^^had  people  T^  And 
as,  uniformly,  after  such  intimations,  and  after  dark, 
a  group  of  men  appeared  and  offered  to  mount  guard 


100  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

over  US  all  night,  for  a  consideration,  it  became  clear, 
from  the  result,  that  it  was  only  a  simple  conspi- 
racy to  extort  money. 

On  such  occasions  our  shekh  was  summoned  and 
informed  in  council  that  we  had  contracted  that  he 
should  pay  all  tolls  ;  that  for  our  own  parts  we 
wished  no  guard,  and  should  certainly  pay  for  none, 
and  that  if  any  ill-advised  Bedoueen  undertook  to 
compel  payment,  the  consequences  (and  here  the 
Pacha  clicked  the  lock  of  the  one-barrel,  and  I 
handled  my  pistols  abstractedly)  were  not  upon  our 
consciences. 

This  affable  treatment  of  prospective  danger  was 
always  successful.  The  danger  remained  prospec- 
tive. There  was  a  larger  group  about  the  fire  those 
nights,  and  in  the  morning  the  Howadji  were  told, 
as  if  to  awaken  remorse,  that  after  guarding  us  all 
night,  the  men  had  retired,  after  the  shekh  had 
paid  them — and  in  a  vague  tone,  like  an  appendix, 
it  was  remarked,  that  the  shekh  had  no  superfluous 
funds  for  such  purposes.  The  obdurate  Howadji 
always  smiled  and  answered  that  they  were  glad 
the  shekh  had  so  dutifully  fulfilled  his  contract. 

It  is  impossible,  however,  not  to  feel  upon  the 
desert  that  you  are  completely  at  the  mercy  of  the 
Arabs.  The  feeling  does  not  rise  into  apprehension, 
because,  like  animals,  they  do  not  fully  comprehend 


ADVENTURE.  101 

the  fact  themselves,  and  because  their  ignorance  of 
possible  consequences  makes  those  consequences 
more  appalling  to  their  fancy.  They  are,  too, 
naturally  peaceable. 

Yet  as  a  man  who  had  been  always  protected  by 
law,  whose  life  was  never  fairly  committed  to  his  own 
keeping,  I  wondered,  with  some  desire,  whether  we 
were  not  to  have  an  adventure.  As  every  man  for 
the  first  time  going  to  sea,  hopes  for  a*  storm,  as  if 
otherwise,  he  could  not  know  the  true  majesty  of 
the  ocean,  so,  abandoned  to  the  desert,  I  half 
wished  to  make  the  sense  of  that  abandonment 
real,  by  the  wild  lawlessness  of  a  skirmish. 

I  say  half-wished,  because,  however  strong  may 
be  your  spirit  of  adventure,  if  you  are  not  a  savage 
or  a  brute,  the  chances  of  killing  or  being  killed, 
to  gratify  a  whim,  are  not  fascinating.  Seen  on 
the  pages  of  books  by  warm  fires,  a  cloud  of  dust 
on  the  horizon,  and  the  ringing  bound  of  armed 
men  seeking  to  do  battle  with  yourself  and  your 
party,  are  agreeable  and  exciting. 

And  I  found  in  Cairo,  at  Shepherd's  dinner-table, 
bands  of  brave  gentlemen  on  their  way  from  the  in- 
terior of  English  counting-houses  to  similar  retreats 
in  India,  who  regretted  extremely  that  time  did  not 
permit  them  "to  run  into  the  desert  and  have  a 
crack  at  the  Arabs." 


102  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

I  was  sorry  for  them,  but  have  since  been  com- 
forted by  hearing  that  brave  men  have  always  time 
and  chance  for  bravery. 

The  genuine  excitement  of  danger,  and  the  heroic 
impatience  of  social  conventions  that  tend  to  per- 
sonal effeminacy  are  very  intelligible,  and  I  know 
the  exulting  leap  of  the  heart  with  which  a  man 
steps  beyond  the  charmed  circle  of  legal  pro- 
tection, and'  relying  upon  his  own  right  arm, 
longs 

"  To  drink  delight  of  battle  with  his  peers." 

But  desert  fighting  is,  at  best,  only  shooting  rob- 
bers. Your  tent  is  a  chamber,  and  the  marauding 
Arab  a  burglar,  and  you  shoot  him  simply  that  he 
may  not  shoot  you,  or  steal  your  purse.  The  Pacha, 
indeed,  indulged  a  laudable  curiosity — laudable  as 
an  item  of  mental  experience — to  know  *'  how  it 
would  seem"  to  shoot  a  man. 

I  suppose  that  is  the  extent  of  the  wish  for  ad- 
venture in  prosecuting  the  desert  journey.  For 
the  first  time  in  your  life — if  you  have  escaped 
highway  robbery — you  find  yourself  in  circum- 
stances that  may  very  easily  and  naturally  compel 
you  to  the  act,  and  the  moment  such  a  thing  be- 
comes possible  or  even  probable,  the  speculation 
ripens  into  desire,  and  you  scan  the  horizon  impa- 


ADVENTURE.  103 

tiently  for  the  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  onslaught  of 
murderous  Arabs. 

The  reality  would  sadly  chill  the  romance.  To 
encounter  an  enemy  in  the  lonely  mid-desert,  an 
enemy  whose  force  would  be  in  numbers,  with 
whom  the  excitement  of  fighting  would  be  only 
the  despair  of  a  cornered  tiger — whom  you  could 
not  feel  to  be  the  *'  peers"  with  whom  battle 
of  any  kind  is  a  delight,  but  beasts  only,  and 
serpents,  and  dumb  forms  of  fate;  and  in  the 
end  to  leave  your  bones  to  bleach  on  the  lonely 
mid-desert — how  does  that  look  on  the  pages  of 
books  by  warm  fires  ?  It  is  an  unmitigated 
tragedy. 

Tragical  enough,  and  in  the  same  kind,  was  the 
fate  of  the  young  English  and  French  officers  who 
perished  in  our  early  Indian  wars.  They  fell  with- 
out the  glorious  consciousness  of  equal  foes.  Yet 
even  these  men,  although  bereaved  of  the  glory 
of  honorable  battle,  snared  and  circumvented  by 
savages,  fought  for  their  country,  and  their  country 
remembers  them. 

The  aspects  of  a  desert  combat  thus  sweep  over 
your  mind,  as  you  meditate  them  upon  MacWhir- 
ter.  But  on  the  whole,  you  wish  you  might  try  it. 
For,  after  all,  how  many  of  the  Syrian  travellers 
who   have  fought,  were   injured  ?      Yet   many  of 


104  THE    HOWADJI    IN  SYRIA. 

them  knew  until  their  last  day,  "  how  it  seems"  to 
shoot  a  man. 

Besides,  it  is  not  very  serious  business.  Many  a 
desert  camp  of  Howadji  has  been  startled  by  the 
shrill  cry  of  "Bedoueen,  Bedoueen,"  and  springing 
up  amid  the  darkness  and  confusion,  and  popping 
and  flashing  of  guns  and  pistols,  there  was  all  the 
dismay  of  a  surprised  army,  with  vague,  bitter 
thoughts  of  home  and  of  vultures  nibbling  carrion 
upon  the  sands,  and  all  the  panorama  of  past  joya 
and  future  woe  was  revealed  by  one  such  moment, 
as  all  the  east  and  west  by  a  lightning  flash  at 
midnight.  But  the  fierce  tumult  died  away  into 
some  stealthy  old  fellow  trying  to  steal  a  chicken. 

These  things  you  remember,  and  wish  the  Arabs 
would  ride  up.  You  are  vexed  to  pass  unscathed 
across  the  wilderness,  when  Perky n  Pastor  and  his 
friend  were  besieged  by  Bedoueen  in  a  tomb  at 
Petra  for  a  whole  day,  blazing  away  at  them  from 
the  barricaded  door,  and  with  only  a  barrel  of 
porter  for  rations.  Pastor  is  a  man  who  has  had 
experiences — you  reflect,  with  chagrin.  Pastor  can 
thrill  any  civilized  saloon  by  commencing  carelessly, 
"  When  I  was  besieged  by  Bedoueen,  in  a  tomb  at 
Petra—" 

What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself,  you  eventless 
Howadji,  whose  only  adventure  up  to  this  moment 


{  OP  THE  ^       X 

fUHIVERSITT; 
A  D  V  E  N  T  U  R  E>-.5iUfORNl>i>l^ 

is  ignominiously  tumbling  off  MacWhirter  at  the 
instant  of  starting  ? 

—  Softly,  softly,  good  my  friends  ! — when  I  saw 
the  seven  Arabs  with  spears  and  matchlocks  com- 
ing slowly  toward  us. — 

—  What'  have  you  had  adventures?  Come, 
Dick,  wake  up  !     Billy  Kirby's  going  to  die  ! 

5* 


XVI. 

ARMA   YIRUMftUE   CANO. 
The  next  morninff  the  venerable  Armenian  halted 


■o 


in  a  grove  of  palms,  and  waited  until  we  came  up. 
We  found  a  strange  man  in  fierce  altercation  with 
him. 

"He  insists  upon  having  the« camel,"  said  the 
Armenian. 

It  was  a  grim  Bedoueen,  and  he  clung  to  the 
halter  of  the  disputed  beast  with  inexorable  tena- 
city. 

"  By  what  right?"  inquired  the  Howadji. 

"  He  says  he  sold  it,  eight  years  ago,  to  the  Arme- 
nian's shekh,  for  six  hundred  piastres,  and  not  a 
para  has  yet  been  paid,  so  he  will  take  the  camel," 
explained  Golden  Sleeve,  between  his  morning 
whiffs. 

"  And  this  was  the  reason  the  shekh  would  not 
come  farther  than  el  Harish  ?" 

"Probably,  gentlemen." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  he  must  not  take  him,"  said  the  com- 
mander, with  the  air  of  the  "  Lord  of  three  seas." 


ARMA    VIRUMQUE    CANO  107 

The  old  Armenian  was  evidently  sadly  perplexed. 
He  rode  up  and  down  on  his  docile  little  white 
mare,  and  shot  oiF  volleys  of  mild  oaths  at  the  grim 
Bedoueen,  with  the  air  of  a  city  merchant  stopped 
on  the  road  with  his  family,  who  deems  it  incum 
bent  upon  him  to  be  brave  and  chivalrous,  but  who 
would  be  very  sorry  to  provoke  unpleasant  con- 
sequences. 

"Oh!  Jcooltooluk !  (oh!  thunder!)  let  the  camel 
go !"  said  he,  from  a  little  distance,  to  the  Bedoueen ; 
"  we  can't  stop  here." 

The  grim  Bedoueen  grasped  the  halter  more 
firmly,  and  broke  out  into  shrill  objurgations  and 
threats. 

Khadra  looked  placidly  out  of  her  nest,  as  if  life 
and  its  chances  were  but  a  play,  to  be  enjoyed  from 
a  palanquin. 

I  turned  MacWhirter  toward  the  mother,  and 
suggested  very  slowly  and  distinctly,  "  Mi  rin- 
cresce  molto,  Signora,^^  (I  am  very  sorry  for  all  this, 
madam.) 

*'  Si,  non  capisco,  Signore,^^  (yes,  sir,  I  don't  under- 
stand,) blandly  retorted  the  lady — and  I  turned 
MacWhirter  back  again. 

There  was  a  tumultuous  quarrel  after  this,  during 
v/hich  I  rode  forward  and  awaited  the  result.  The 
caravan  presently  followed,  and  the  Pacha  told  me 


108  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYIilA. 

that  the  Bedoueen  had  retired  into  the  desert, 
announcing  his  intention  of  returning  with  seven 
other  devils  worse  than  himself,  and  of  capturing 
the  camel,  if  necessary,  by  force  of  arms. 

By  force  of  arms?  Here  was  "  w^orshipful  intelli- 
gence." Here  was  the  gauntlet  deliberately  thrown 
down  by  the  "  wild  tribes  of  the  desert." 

By  force  of  arms  ?  And  I  reflected  with  excusable 
pride  upon  following  Perkyn  Pastor's  Petra  ro- 
mance with  another,  commencing — "  Yes,  and  when 
the  Arabs  came  down  upon  us  near  El  Harish."  1 
kindled  with  the  thought.  Stale  seemed  the  life  of 
cities — 

"  0  give  me  but  my  Arab  steed," 

sang  T.  The  boundless  desert,  and  combat  hand  to 
hand.  Ho !  St.  George  for  merrie  England  !  shouted 
I,  battering  MacWhirter's  neck  with  my  cane. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  Pacha. 

^'  In  what  order  shall  we  give  battle  ?"  replied  1. 

"What  battle  ?"  said  the  exasperated  Pacha, 

— Sure  enough,  what  battle  ? 

The  Howadji  plodded  on  silently.  At  length 
Mohammed  came  up  and  asked — 

"What  will  the  gentlemen  do?" 

"  Give  instant  battle,"  replied  I,  battering  Mac- 
Whirter's  neck  with  renewed  vigor. 


ARMA    VIRUMQUE    CANO.  109 

The  Pacha  had  no  words  for  me ;  but  he  inquired 
of  the  commander  if  the  Arab  would  return. 

"  Most  certainly,"  he  replied. 

"How  soon?" 

"  Within  an  hour  and  a  half" 

«  What  will  he  do  ?" 

"  He  and  his  friends  will  try  to  take  the  camel." 

"  Will  the  old  gentleman  resist  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Will  there  be  a  fight  ?" 

*«  Probably." 

The  Howadji  held  a  council,  and  agreed,  that  as 
allies  of  the  venerable  Armenian  and  of  his  beautiful 
daughter,  they  were  bound  in  honor  to  maintain  his 
cause. 

But  it  was  perfectly  clear  that  he  was  in  the 
wrong.  He  had  been  deceived,  certainly,  but  we 
learn  that  he  did  not  doubt  the  justice  of  the  Arab's 
claim,  and  happily  being  beyond  civilized  lands  and 
legal  conventions,  there  was  no  pretence  that  persist- 
ence in  wrong-doing  *'  outlawed"  justice  and  com- 
mon sense.  There  was  no  casuist  or  doctor  of  civil 
law  at  hand,  to  show  that  as  the  camel-driver  had 
retained  the  beast,  and  had  enjoyed  the  use  and  profit 
of  it  for  eight  years,  that,  therefore,  he  had  estab- 
lished his  right  to  it,  and  that  the  Arab  might  retire 
over  the  desert,  whistling. 


LIO  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Right  or  wrong,  however,  the  Bedoueen  w^as  about 
appealing  to  the  primeval  law  of  force — the  only 
law  of  property  recognized  by  the  great  captains  of 
all  ages.  And,  right  or  wrong,  we  were  involved  in 
the  scrape. 

*'  Adventure"  had  descended  upon  us  in  an  igno- 
minious aspect.  Any  Arab  fighting  was  unsatisfac- 
tory enough,  viewed  in  respect  of  glory.  But  to 
fight  with  a  few  miserable  men,  who  simply  insisted 
upon  a  right ;  to  bring  all  the  modern  improvements 
of  the  science  of  gunnery  to  bear  upon  these  poor 
wretches — truly,  from  him  wiio  hath  not,  thought  I, 
shall  be  taken  even  that  which  he  hath. 

But  I  viewed  it  again.  There  was  plenty  of  time, 
advancing  upon  MacWhirter  two-and-a-half  miles 
an  hour,  to  contemplate  it  in  every  aspect. 

Here,  Pacha,  we  shall  be  put  to  proof.  Let  us 
hail  this  fortunate  opportunity  of  discovering  if  we 
be  heroes  or  not.  How  should  we  ever  ascertain  in 
New  York  or  Boston  ?  This  day  shall  teach  us  a 
noble  pride  or  a  wise  humility.  Here  we  are  tried  as 
men,  not  as  citizens.  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  this 
day  ascertain  "  how  it  seems"  to  shoot  a  man. 

The  time  came  to  fall  into  line.  We  sent  to  in- 
form our  ally  that  we  should  not  fail  him  in  this 
perilous  juncture.  He  insisted  upon  preceding  the 
two  caravans  upon  his  white  mare,   and  called  for 


ARMA    VIRUMQUE    CANO.  Ill 

his  gun,  which  he  brandished  in  a  manner  of  no 
hopeful  auspice  for  the  Hovvadji. 

The  rest  of  us  were  distributed  at  fair  distances 
through  the  line.  I  looked  with  curiosity  at  the 
commander,  to  see  him  extricating  swords  from 
scabbards  and  leather  cases,  and  putting  hifnself  into 
an  impregnable  state  of  defence.  But  no  muscle  or 
weapon  moved.  Golden  Sleeve  evidently  relied 
upon  the  moral  force  of  his  arsenal.  Taking  the 
hint,  I  brought  my  two  pocket  pistols  to  the  front, 
and  then  remembered  that  my  box  of  caps  was  in 
the  commander's  keeping,  and  my  bullets  at  the 
bottom  of  the  portmanteau.  But  I  bated  no  jot  of 
heart;  for  I  remembered  Hannibal  at  Thrasimene 
and  Napoleon  everywhere. 

I  stole  a  glance  at  Khadra.  She  was  looking  from 
her  palanquin,  her  eyes  dreamily  roving  along  the 
horizon,  and  by  a  sudden  flash  that  lightened 
through  them  I  knew  the  cloud  of  dust  was  rising, 
and  that  the  foe  were   riding  up. 

When,  then,  I  turned  and  saw  the  seven  Arabs 
wnth  spears  and  matchlocks  coming  slowly  toward 
us,  my  first  emotion  was  of  surprise  that  they  made 
no  furious  onset.  In  fact  they  had  no  horses.  But 
our  *'  peers"  appeared  in  the  shape  of  seven  exces- 
sively ill-favored  and  habited  Arabs,  each  bearing  a 
long-barrelled  matchlock  and  a  spear,  with  sundry 


112  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

knives  and  daggers  stuck  in  belts  around  their 
waists.  They  had  more  the  aspect  of  stealthy  pi- 
rates than  of  gallant  Bedoueen. 

They  came  slowly  on,  and  we  slowly  proceeded. 
The  old  Armenian  deigned  no  glance  at  the  foe. 
We  took  our  cue  from  him,  I  merely  turning  to  look 
into  Khadra's  eyes,  and  assure  her  by  my  own  that 
I  bore  her  name  upon  my  imaginary  shield,  her 
image  in  my  heart. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  Arabs,  until  I  saw 
that  they  were  within  gunshot,  and  that  the  battle, 
before  which  Troy  paled,  might  at  any  moment 
begin.  I  had  no  faith  in  the  skill  of  the  Arabs  as 
marksmen,  but  a  discharge  of  their  weapons,  while 
several  would  probably  explode  and  damage  their  own 
party,  would  also  take  effect  upon  some  of  our 
camels,  and  create  great  confusion.  Why  should 
not  MacWhirter  be  the  victim,  and  fall  with  me,  in- 
gloriously  burying  me  under  him  ?  or  why,  alarmed 
at  the  aspect  of  affairs,  should  he  not  betake  himself, 
with  me  upon  his  back,  into  the  remote  desert?  I 
felt  the  disadvantage  of  giving  battle  from  a  beast 
who  off*ered  so  fair  a  mark  to  the  enemy,  and  whose 
motions  you  could  not  control. 

The  warm  silence  of  the  day,  our  sluggish  pro- 
gress, the  slow  advance  of  the  Bedoueen,  and  the  con- 
stant expectation  of  something,  became  insupportable 


ARMA    VIKUMQUE    CANO.  113 

As  descendents  of  the  crusaders — upon  the  most 
general  principles,  ought  we  not  to  blaze  away  at 
these  ill-favored  Saracens  ?  I  handled  my  pie-knife 
in  a  sanguinary  mood.  I  battered  MacWhirter's 
neck.  I  saw  Kichard  Coeur  de  Lion  smiling  scorn- 
fully at  me  through  six  centuries.  But  I  fairly 
trembled  when  I  figured  Perkyn  Pastor  wooed  by  a 
cluster  of  rose-red  lips  to  tell  that  dreadful  story  of 
the  Bedoueen  who  beseiged  him  in  a  tomb  at  Petra. 

Stung  by  the  thought,  I  resolved,  for  my  own 
part,  to  let  fly  something  at  the  enemy.  My  pistols 
were  useless,  for  I  had  no  ammunition.  The  pie- 
knife  best  suited  the  hand-to-hand  struggle  which 
I  savagely  anticipated.  My  cane  was  too  light.  I 
thought  for  a  moment  of  the  umbrella,  but  the  scoff- 
ing of  the  Lion-heart  became  audible.  Then  I  hap- 
pily remembered  the  water-jug,  earthen  and  heavy 
with  water,  and  with  a  slim  neck  to  sling  it  by. 
Providence  clearly  pointed  to  the  water-jug,  and 
knowing  that  he  would  have  small  chance  of  doing 
it,  I  commended  to  his  Prophet  the  soul  of  whatever 
scoundrelly  Arab  I  should  sacrifice,  and  grasped  my 
weapon. — 

At  the  same  instant  the  old  Armenian  reined  up 
his  white  mare.  The  camels  stopped.  The  hour 
had  come.     We  were  having  '.'  an  adventure." 

If  this  work  were  publishing  in  monthly  parts, 


114  THE    HOWADJI    IN     SYRIA. 

I  should  infallibly   pause  here,  and  enjoy  for  four 
weeks  the  fame  of  a  man  who  has  had  experiences. 

The  glowing  imagination  of  my  rose-lipped  reader 
(\iappy  the  Howadji,  if  such  there  be  !)  should  sound 
the  alarm  and  retreat;  should  behold,  and  with  sym- 
pathy, the  furious  attack — the  armed  descent  from  El 
Shiraz  and  MacWhirter ;  the  commander's  arsenal  in 
full  play, — each  separate  weapon  drinking  blood  ; 
should  see  the  pie-knife  reeking  with  Arabian  gore — 
the  feats  of  valor  that  illustrated  the  defense  of 
Khadra,  her  drooping  figure  clasped  and  sustained 
by  one  arm  of  either  Howadji,  while  the  other  lev- 
elled rank  upon  rank  of  the  foe,  and  supplied  more 
heroic  romances  for  the  future  poets  of  the  Be- 
doueen  ;  should  behold  the  venerable  hairs  dragged 
in  the  dust — those  dreamy  eyes  of  Khadra  shedding 
orphan  tears  in  the  young  moonlight,  and  the  silence 
of  evening  and  of  victory  closing  over  the  piles  of 
*'  Moslem  slain — " 

Rose-lipped  reader,  believe  it  so,  nor  allow  Per- 
kyn  Pastor  an  undivided  glory. 

The  hour  had  come.  I  watched  the  old  Arme- 
nian, who  quietly  turned  the  mare  and  rode  up,  guq 
in  hand,  to  the  Arabs. 

"  Strike  for  your  altars  and  your  fires," 

shouted  I  from  the  summit  of  MacWhirter. 


ARMA    VIRUMQUE    CANO.  115 

But  the  old  gentleman  was  actually  parleying 
with  the  foe,  was  palpably  taking  snufF — a  Napo- 
leonic trait — upon  the  eve  of  battle.  The  conversa- 
tion was  held  in  a  low  tone,  and  without  any  vio- 
lent demonstrations.  There  was  even  laughter; 
and  when  the  commander,  who  had  been  listening 
from  a  proper  distance,  came  up  shaking  and  rat- 
tling, and  more  heroic  than  ever,  I  felt  a  melancholy 
reaction,  and  knew  that  all  was  over. 

The  disputed  camel  was  unloaded,  and,  after  the 
Bedoueen  had  assisted  in  placing  his  load  upon  an- 
other beast,  they  graciously  exchanged  salaams 
with  the  Armenian  Nestor,  and  with  Mohammed, 
who  wore  the  happy  air  of  a  victor,  and  slowly  re- 
treated, leading  the  camel  with  them. 

Rose-lipped  reader — but  what  could  I  do  ?  No- 
thing was  said.  What  could  be  said  ?  Had  we 
not  '*  lost  the  race  we  never  ran  ?"  Could  I  ever 
stand  again  at  the  tomb  of  Richard  ?  Could  I  ever 
again  look  Perkyn  Pastor  in  the  face  ? 

We  plodded  on.  But  I  stole  another  glance  at 
Khadra.  In  the  sunset  her  dreamy  eyes  still 
roamed  the  horizon,  and  their  soft  light  overflowed 
me  with  forgetfulness  and  dreams. 


XVII. 

QUARANTINE. 

A  GAY  cavalier  dashed  toward  us.  It  was  a  cool, 
bright  day.  Khadra  was  chatting  briskly,  and  her 
camel-driver  sang  more  sadly  than  ever. 

Our  gay  escort  caracolled  around  us  as  we  ad- 
vanced, chasing  young  and  old  from  our  path,  and 
the  people  stared  at  us  through  the  cracks  of  their 
doors,  as  if  death,  on  his  horse,  with  a  pale  proces- 
sion of  sorrows,  were  passing  by,  and  not  immortal 
young  Howadji,  and  the  beautiful  Khadra.  Look- 
ing at  her  and  at  them,  Syria  vanished,  and  I  was 
attendant  upon  superb  Godiva,  riding  through 
hushed  Coventry. 

Presently,  from  among  green  trees,  a  vast  wall 
rose  against  the  sky.  The  sight  kindled  our  gay 
cavalier,  who  plunged  his  spurs  more  deeply  into 
his  horse,  and  danced  around  us  with  greater  delight. 
At  the  same  moment  he  pointed  eagerly  at  the  wall, 
shining  in  the  sun,  and  expressed  his  satisfaction  in 
excited  Arabic. 


C^UARANTINE.  117 

*'  This  is  the  dragoman  of  some  pacha,"  1  said  to 
myself,  reflectively,  "  who  inhabits  yonder  spacious 
castle,  and  who  bids  us  partake  of  his  magnificent 
bounties." 

"Certainly,"  I  said  aloud  to  the  commander^ 
*'  tell  him  we  will  avail  ourselves  of  the  pacha's 
gracious  hospitality." 

"  Sir,"  returned  Golden  Sleeve. 

"  What  is  the  function  of  this  individual?"  I  con- 
tinued, in  the  Ercles  vein  ;  for  the  castle  and  atten- 
tion seemed  to  be  of  that  character. 

*'  He  is  the  quarantine  guard,"  thunder  clapped 
the  commander. 

As  Howadji  journeying  from  Cairo,  we  were,  ex- 
ojicioi  infected  with  every  mortal  disease,  and  hence 
the  great  yellow  wall  before  us.  It  was  the  prison 
of  the  quarantine,  which  is  the  only  method  of 
Christian  martyrdom  at  present  legalized  by  the 
Prophet's  vicar. 

It  includes  the  most  loathsome  incarceration — 
separation  from  all  but  those  victims  who  chance 
to  be  of  your  own  party — the  constant  attendance 
of  a  '^  guardiano,^^  who,  with  a  long  pole,  shoves 
away  from  you  every  one  who  would  wish  to  shake 
yDu  by  the  hand,  so  that  you  shall  meet  your  friend 
or  brother,  with  whom  you  parted  years  ago  in  your 
native  land,  and  who   comes  full  of  all  happy  or 


118  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

mournful  tidings  out  of  the  bosom  of  your  family, 
but  who  must  shout  at  you  from  a  distance  ;  and, 
although  living  within  the  same  wall  with  you  for 
days,  never  touch  the  hem  of  your  garment.  The 
rack  of  fleas,  the  sting  of  every  kind  of  vermin,  the 
periodical  suffocation  by  assafetida,  are  only  the 
garnishing  horrors  of  this  martyrdom.  You  lose  by 
it  six  or  eight  weeks  of  your  five  oriental  months. 
It  is  the  true  plague. 

I  knew  all  that.  But  I  had  not  as  yet  practically 
experienced  a  quarantine.  I  was  the  child  who  has 
not  yet  burnt  his  finger,  and  I  wanted  to  thrust  it 
in.  I  really  did  wish  to  try  if  the  quarantine  were 
80  very  bad ;  and  I  rode  up  to  the  portal  with  a 
good  grace,  and  passed  into  the  court  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  arrives  to  taste  the  magnificent  hospi- 
talities of  the  pacha. 

It  was  a  huge  square  court,  with  a  clumsy  well 
in  the  centre.  The  ground  was  hard  and  gravelly, 
and  all  around  the  sides  were  rough,  plastered 
walls,  tauntingly  high,  and  glaring  in  the  sun.  A 
few  squalid,  miserable  figures  stood  about  the  court, 
vacantly  staring  at  us  as  we  entered ;  each  of  them 
in  charge  of  a  guardiano,  with  a  long  pole,  which 
was  occasionally  levelled  to  fence  them  off  from 
each  other.  Melancholy  piles  of  luggage  lay  scat- 
tered about  the  court,  which  presented  no  festal 


QUARANTINE.  119 

appearance  at  all,  and  satisfied  all  curiosity  in  a 
moment,  and  in  the  most  emphatic  manner. 

The  long  side  of  the  court,  opposite  the  entrance, 
was  formed  by  a  range  of  buildings  of  the  same 
rough  plaster,  and  one  story  in  height.  This  range 
was  pierced  at  regular  intervals  by  small,  square, 
cell-like  doors,  at  whose  sides  were  windows  in  the 
strictest  architectural  harmony  with  the  building. 

'*  Those,"  mused  I  upon  the  top  of  MacWhirter, 
'*  those  recesses  are  the  obsolete  potato-bins  of  the 
pacha,  whose  guests  we  are." 

This  was  the  sum  of  the  prospect.  The  glaring, 
rough-plastered  and  gravel-floored  court,  with  the 
potato-bins  opening  into  it — the  well — the  figures — 
the  luggage — and  overhead,  the  cloudless  blue  noon 
of  Syria.  Grace  and  beauty  had  clearly  perished 
from  the  world.  One  green  leaf  had  been  nature, 
and  art,  and  religion,  in  that  rigid  desolation.  I 
stared  in  blank  dismay  from  MacWhirter,  not  anxi- 
ous to  dismount,  confessing,  with  groans  of  soul, 
that  my  fingers  were  already  burned  to  my  ex- 
tremest  satisfaction. 

But  we  did  dismount,  and  increased  the  company 
of  miserable  figures  standing  hopelessly  in  the 
court.  A  guardiano  smilingly  advanced  with  his 
long  pole,  and  cheerfully  commenced  "  fending  off" 
the  supernumeraries  of  the  establishment  who  clus- 


120  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

tered  around  us.  The  pack-camels  were  unloaded 
They  were  all  led  out  of  the  court.  Even  Mac- 
Whirter  turned  his  back  upon  me  and  went,  sniff- 
ing and  pompous,  out  into  the  beautiful  landscape. 
The  Pacha — not  the  illusive  host — but  our  Pacha, 
stood,  wrapped  in  his  huge  capote,  nursing  Achil- 
lean wrath. 

And  not  far  removed,  half  sitting  upon  bales  and 
boxes,  the  beautiful  Khadra  looked  tranquilly  upon 
the  scene. 

The  cheerful  guardiano  suddenly  thrust  his  pole 
at  the  Ilowadji,  and  beckoned  us  to  follow  him. 
He  led  us  to  the  door  of  one  of  the  potato-bins, 
and  indicated  that  we  were  at  liberty  to  begin 
housekeeping  in  it.  We  looked  in,  mechanically, 
at  the  door,  and  recoiled. 

It  was  a  square,  gray-plastered  hole,  with  an  un- 
even earthen  floor.  There  was  not  so  much  as  a 
wooden  peg  upon  the  walls.  But  a  dampness,  as 
of  vaults,  and  in  that  dampness  the  vague  sense  of 
horrible  disease  and  death,  breathed  upon  us  as  we 
surveyed  it. 

The  guardiano,  slyly  watching  for  some  unwary 
straggler  whom  he  might  punch  with  his  long 
stick,  remained  close  beside  us,  until  the  Achillean 
Pacha  moved  suddenly  aside,  and  very  nearly  de- 
stroyed the  official's  centre  of  gravity.     We  sum- 


QUARANTINE.  121 

inoned  the  commander  and  told  him  that  we  would 
camp  in  the  court.  He  shrugged  bodeful  shoulders, 
but  stepped  up  to  the  guardiano  and  proposed  thai 
arrangement.  It  was  not  permitted  by  the  legula- 
tions. 

—  *'  But  we  shall  die  in  that  hole." 

Golden  Sleeve  only  shrugged  impotently.  But 
the  guai'diano  smiled  cheerfully,  with  an  apparent 
conviction  that  we  should  finally  come  to  it,  as  very 
many  of  our  predecessors  and  betters  had  done.  He 
was  a  cheerful  Muslim  that  guardiano,  and  did  his 
business  graciously,  like  the  younger  hangman  in 
Quentin  Durward.  He  leaned  against  the  wall  in 
the  sun,  and  awaited  our  determination  with  the 
greatest  serenity.  It  was  simpl}'-  his  function  to 
keep  the  world  away  from  us  for  a  certain  time, 
with  his  long  pole.  If  we  thought  fit  to  remain 
dismally  standing  in  the  court,  during  that  time,  it 
was  equally  agreeable  to  him,  and  did  not  at  all 
embarrass  his  duties.  So  he  genially  stood  in  the 
sun,  and  studied  our  appearance  and  costume. 

While  we  were  still  undecided,  two  gentlemen 
emerged  from  a  neighboring  bin,  were  instantly 
joined  by  another  Long  Stick  in  waiting,  and  com- 
menced a  vigorous  promenade.  They  wore  that 
hybrid  costume,  half  English  and  half  oriental, 
which  John  Bull  affects  in  the  East.    We  watched 


122  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

them  with  interest ;  for  they  had  clearly  been  broken 
in  to  the  quarantine-life,  for  several  days. 

They  marched  to  one  end  of  the  court,  making 
Long  Stick  step  more  rapidly  than  the  Muslim 
wont,  and  then  wheeling,  returned  briskly  to  the 
other  end,  while  Long  Stick  made  frequent  onsets 
with  his  pole  upon  some  incautious  straggler.  Ex- 
cept for  the  oriental  strain  in  their  dress — the  body 
garment,  which  was  neither  coat  nor  kaftan,  yet 
leaned  to  the  latter  without  losing  the  former — the 
compromising  bulge  of  the  trowsers,  terminating  in 
red  slippers  with  upturned  toes — the  bright  sash 
folded  around  an  indubitable  waistcoat  from  Re- 
gent-street, and  the  Rubens  hat  cinctured  with 
heavy  folds  of  linen ;  except  for  this  eclectic  cos- 
tume, the  gentlemen  might  have  been  taking  their 
"  constitutional"  in  a  run  about  the  Park,  or  on 
the  banks  of  Isis  or  Cam,  and  not  upon  the  edge 
of  the  Syrian  desert,  in  scriptural  Gaza. 

While  the  Howadji  watched  this  animated  pro- 
menade, and  wondered  what  Sartorian  Teufels- 
drockh  would  have  thought  of  the  clothes  those 
gentlemen  wore,  I  heard  a  sound  of  low  laughter 
over  my  head,  mingled  with  a  greeting  —  *' Grood 
morning,  Wind,  taking  your  constitutional  ?  Well, 
there's  truth  in  the  clothes  philosophy  after  all, 
only  you  should  wear  a  triple  crown  on  your  shovel 


QUARANTINE.  123 

hat,  and  a  scarlet  petticoat  to  that  waistcoat.     The 
symbol  would  be  more  faithful." 

And   the  words  died   away  into  the  same   low 
laughter,  which  the  promenaders  could  not  hear. 

I  looked  up,  and  discovered  that  at  each  end  of 
the  range  of  potato-bins  there  was  a  small  upper 
room,  and  from  one  of  them  Leisurlie  was  looking 
out  and  hailing  his  friends  below.  I  scanned  them 
more  closely,  and  from  the  bewildering  mixture  of 
hat  and  turban,  I  extricated  the  features  of  Wind 
and  Shower! 

In  my  surprise,  I  expected  to  hear  from  some 
other  window  in  the  air  worthy  Mr.  Spenlow,  say- 
ing cheerfully,  '*  There  you  are  again."  He  did  not 
say  so,  but  there  we  were  :  Leisurlie  and  our  Pu- 
seyite  contemporaries  of  the  Nile,  who  spread  their 
vast  blue  pennant  so  gallantly  at  Asyoot,  and  the 
Pacha  and  I,  all  housed  for  the  nonce  in  the  Gaza 
bins. 

We  exchanged  greetings,  while  the  guardiani 
stood  ready  for  action  with  their  staves.  On  such 
terms,  conversation  was  naturally  not  very  fluent, 
and  it  was  time  to  consider  what  we  would  do. 

Looking  in  at  the  damp  hole  once  more,  we  con- 
cluded to  do  precisely  what  Long  Stick  said  we 
should  do — namely  to  set  up  housekeeping  in  the 
bin.     The  carpets  and  portmanteaus   were  thrown 


124  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

in,  the  rest  of  the  freight  thrust  after  to  promote  an 
air  of  cheerfulness,  and  Mohammed  erected  his  fur- 
nace before  the  door,  and  proceeded  to  cook  the 
dinner.  Fortunately  it  was  possible  to  obtain  fresh 
fruit  from  Gaza,  and  the  commander,  who  was  as 
good  a  cook  as  he  was  warrior,  undertook  to  com- 
memorate the  day  by  an  original  pudding. 

Ah !  Hadji  Hamed,  long  cook  of  the  Ibis,  in 
whose  destiny  a  desert  journey  with  these  Howadji 
was  not  included,  your  image  returned  in  that 
dreary  quarantine,  fragrant  and  cloud-wreathed 
with  the  fumes  of  Icara  Icooseh  and  of  yaJchnee. 
Hadji  Hamed,  it  is  as  impossible  to  speak  of  the 
commander's  commemorative  pudding  as  it  was  to 
eat  it. 

Quarantine  is  not  lovely.  On  shipboard  it  is 
more  tolerable,  or  in  any  place,  however  miserable, 
whence  your  eye  and  soul  may  refresh  themselves 
with  the  vision  of  earth  or  water. 

But  in  a  glaring  square  court,  with  no  green  thing 
and  no  gay  thing,  and  no  pleasant  motion  to  greet 
the  eye  :  with  the  consciousness  of  the  loathsome 
diseases  that  have  raged  in  the  very  bin  which  incloses 
you,  and  the  conviction  that,  if  excited  imagination 
should  affect  your  health,  longer  and  more  torturing 
imprisonment  and  mortal  disease,  nursed  by  a  cheer- 
ful Long  Stick  in  waiting,  and  attended  by  an  idiot 


QUARANTINE.  1 25 

of  an  Italian  medico,  who  looks  at  you  from  a  dis- 
tance, through  assafetida  smoke,  would  be  your 
portion  until  the  good  angel  death  removed  you, — 
under  these  circumstances  the  quarantine  is  an  ex- 
quisite torture,  and  is  a  refinement  of  cruelty  well 
worthy  the  attention  of  the  anti-humane  movement, 
which  deplores  model  prisons. 

If  Mr.  Carlyle,  as  chairman  of  a  committee  of  the 
anti-rosewater  philanthropists,  would  proceed  up- 
on a  visit  of  examination  to  the  quarantine  of  Gaza, 
he  would  discover  its  paramount  advantage  of  the 
combination  of  the  greatest  amount  of  practical, 
physical  suffering  with  the  smallest  possibility  of 
mental  comfort.  There  is  not  the  faintest  odor  of 
rose-water  in  any  corner  of  the  establishment,  nor  of 
the  policy  which  dictates  it.  Had  the  journey  been 
earlier  performed  by  that  gentleman,  we  should 
surely  have  had  one  other  proposal  for  the  solution 
of  the  Irish  question,  namely :  the  erection  of  a 
quarantine  upon  the  Gaza  model,  large  enough  to 
shovel  all  Ireland  into,  there  "  to  digest  itself  at  lei- 
sure." 

In  the  quarantine  you  would  read  if  you  could. 
But  your  books  are  as  tasteless  to  your  listless  mind 
as  cakes  to  a  fevered  palate.  Carelessly  you  turn 
the  pages,  and  rise  to  stroll  in  the  court.  The  guar- 
diano  steps  nimbly  up  and  flourishes  his  pole.     You 


120  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA.' 

stalk  idly  about  in  the  sun,  veering  toward  any 
chance  figure  standing  in  the  court,  that  it  may  be 
thrust  away  by  Long  Stick.  From  some  neighbor- 
ing bin,  heaped  with  a  mass  of  filthy  Arabs,  among 
whom  some  dervish  or  santon  chances  to  be,  you 
hear  the  wild  howl  of  religious  frenzy.  Nor  can  you 
but  shudder,  dreading  that  much  longer  resistance 
would  tune  your  witless  voice  to  the  same  mea- 
sures. 

The  commander,  lying  smoking  among  the  pots 
and  pans,  has  an  introverted  aspect,  as  if  meditating 
some  further  atrocity  in  the  shape  of  pudding.  And 
what  diabolical  puddings  might  a  man  not  make, 
who  lived  long  in  quarantine  !  Wind  and  Shower 
pass  in  animated  conversation,  actually  resigned,  ap- 
parently, to  this  hiatus  in  life.  You  lurch  toward 
them,  and  your  Long  Stick  parries  poles  with  theirs. 
The  venerable  Armenian,  whose  bin  is  next  our  own, 
is  sleeping  in  the  sun ;  his  grave  white  beard  float- 
ing over  his  vesture — like  a  Roman  Senator,  you 
try  to  fancy,  as  if  fancy  had  not  long  since  perish- 
ed. 

"After  all,"  you  say,  looking  up  and  striving  to 
cajole  your  intolerable  ennui,  "  after  all,  that  is  the 
Syrian  sky." 

In  vain.  Even  the  sky  has  turned  against  us.  It 
IS  brazen  and    m.onotonous.     Not  one   soft    cloud 


QUARANTINE.  127 

wreathes  and  melts  in  its  depths — not  a  bird  flies 
singing  through  the  blue. 

Only  in  the  twilight  your  heart  is  a  little  comfort- 
ed. For  it  touches  with  soft  splendor  the  rough 
plaster  walls,  melting  them  and  fusing,  until  the 
compassionate  moon  rises  behind  the  palms  of  Gaza, 
which  you  cannot  see,  and,  looking  into  the  court  of 
desolation,  it  builds  in  the  dim  air  a  marble  palace 
of  your  prison. 

And  in  that  moonlight  sits  Khadra  at  the  door  of 
her  bin,  singing  Arabic  ditties  of  love  and  sorrow. 


JERUSALEM, 


"  Now  wul  y  telle  the  ryght  way  to  Jerusalem." 

Sir  John  Mandeville. 


"I  hope  I  shall  do  nobody  wrong  to  speak  what  I  think,  and  de- 
serve not  blame  in  imparting  my  mind.  If  it  be  not  for  thy  ease,  it 
may  be  for  my  own.  So  Tully  Cardan,  and  Boethius  wrote  de  conaol, 
as  much  to  help  themselves  as  others." 

Burton's  Anatomy. 

"Fiirchtet  nichts,  fromme  Seelen.  Keine  prophanirende  Schcrze 
sollen  euer  Ohr  verletzen." 

Henry  Heine. 


I. 

PALM   SUNDAY. 

Palm  Sunday  dawned  over  Palestine.  It  was  a 
8oft,  bright  morning,  the  last  of  our  miserable  im- 
prisonment. The  day  before,  Wind  and  Shower 
had  passed  out  of  the  great  gate  toward  Jerusa- 
lem. Leisurlie  was  already  gone,  and  soon  after 
sunrise  our  camels  entered  the  court  to  be  loaded. 
The  Howadji  were  incensed  with  assafetida,  and 
adjudged  clean.  We  should  not  imperil  the  health 
of  Syria,  and  might  go  to  Jerusalem. 

In  the  silence  and  ennui  of  those  quarantine  days, 
I  had  full  time  to  remember  the  country  in  which 
we  were,  and  the  city  to  which  we  were  going. 
Even  here  in  Syria,  here  in  Gaza,  city  which  I  had 
vaguely  figured  to  myself  when,  a  child,  I  listened 
wondering  to  the  story  of  Samson — even  here  the 
day  came  with  the  old  Sabbath  feeling,  with  that 
spirit  of  devotional  stillness  in  the  air  which  broods 
over  our  home  Sundays,  irksome  by  their  sombre 
gravity  to  the  boy,  but  remembered  by  the  man 
with  sweet  sadness. 


134  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

The  shadow  of  the  cross  suddenly  fell  athwart 
the  gleam  of  the  crescent.  That  Palm  Sunday 
mornings  the  image  which  is  the  genius  of  Pales- 
tine, passed  into  my  heart  over  reverential  thoughts, 
and  hushed  hopes,  as  over  strewn  olive-branches 
and  under  palms,  Christ  entered  Jerusalem,  Be- 
hind and  before  —  the  desert  and  Damascus — lay 
the  peculiar  Orient.  But  we  entered  now  upon  a 
land  consecrated  by  one  life  to  universal  and  eter- 
nal interest. 

The  day  was  warm,  the  air  was  still,  and  we 
paced  stately  out  of  the  court  into  the  lonely  land- 
scape of  Palestine,  and  turning  toward  Jerusalem, 
a  myriad  emotions  whispered  in  that  morning — 
*'  hosanna,  hosanna !" 

At  the  gate,  too,  as  if  so  fit  a  figure  of  our  strictly 
oriental  and  poetic  dreams  must  not  mingle  with 
our  changing  thoughts,  the  grave  old  Armenian  and 
the  beautiful  Khadra  went  another  way,  and  we 
should  not  meet  again  until  we  reached  Jerusalem. 
As,  upon  his  docile  white  mare,  the  venerable  father 
piloted  his  little  caravan  away,  I  could  still  catch 
glimpses  of  the  daughter  looking  curiously  at  us 
with  her  dreamy  eyes,  could  still  see  the  tall  camel- 
driver  walking  slowly  before  her  palanquin. 

It  disappeared  behind  a  hedge  of  cactus.  For 
many  days  I  did  not  see  her  again.     But  a  solitary 


PALM    SUNDAY.  135 

palm  upon  a  hillock  still  watched  her  going,  and 
waved  its  boughs  slowly  toward  me  in  melancholy 
farewell. 

I  was  consoled,  however,  by  my  release  from 
prison,  and  no  landscape  was  ever  more  beautiful 
than  that  which  greeted  my  eyes  this  morning — 
doubly  beautiful  for  the  long  desert  journey,  and 
the  dreary  quarantine.  The  little  hill  on  which 
stands  Gaza,  waved  in  gentle  and  graceful  undula- 
tions, bearing  pomegranate,  and  orange,  and  date- 
trees,  mimosas,  and  acacias,  in  its  swell,  and  among 
them  wound  quiet  lanes  hedged  by  prickly  pear 
and  aloe.  Grain  waved  softly  from  the  distance, 
and  out  of  the  luxurious  green,  rose  the  minaret 
of  Gaza,  with  groups  of  low  houses  clustering 
around  it. 

Gaza  was  called  the  capital  of  Palestine,  and  in 
the  ruins  of  white  marble  sometimes  found  there,  it 
is  hard  to  see  anything  else  than  the  remains  of  the 
temple  which  Samson  destroyed. 

Our  road  led  by  a  cemetery  of  domed  tombs.  It 
was  bare  and  desolate,  like  a  ruined  town.  Then, 
passmg  along  a  spacious  avenue,  shaded  with  trees, 
we  emerged  upon  a  sea  of  grain.  It  was  darkened 
at  intervals  by  venerable,  scraggy  olives,  and,  rock- 
ing through  it  upon  MacWhirter,  I  saw,  beyond,  a 
vast  reach  of  bare,  green  land,  partly  grain,  partly 


136  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

waste.  Far  away  upon  the  eastern  horizon  —  a 
misty  blue  rampart — stretched  a  range  of  hills,  the 
mountains  of  Judea.  Toward  the  west  the  green 
shrank  away  into  low,  melancholy  sand-mounds, 
and  so  crept  to  the  sea. 

The  landscape  was  so  fresh  and  fair,  that  I  could 
have  sung  with  the  meadow-larks  that  darted,  sing- 
ing, in  the  sun.  But  it  was  so  lonely  and  mourn- 
ful, that  the  song  would  have  been  too  sad  for  a 
bird's  singing.  Far  as  I  could  see,  before  and 
around  me,  there  was  no  town,  no  sign  of  vigorous 
life.  It  was  akin  to  the  sublime  solitude  of  the 
Roman  Campagna,  if  to  its  present  desolation  you 
add  the  nodding  grain  of  its  earlier  cultivation.  In 
outline,  and  extent,  and  hue,  the  hills  were  not 
unlike  the  Sabine  or  Volscian  mountains,  seen  from 
Rome. 

But  not  the  glittering  fame  of  Roman  story  con- 
secrates the  Campagna  hills  to  the  imagination,  as 
the  bleak  Judea  mountains  are  consecrated  by  a 
single  life.  The  tranquil  sweetness  of  the  summer 
sky  breathes  over  this  landscape  as  does  that  gra- 
cious memory  over  the  human  heart.  In  Palestine 
that  figure  is  forever  present.  On  these  infinite, 
solitary  grain-tracts  moves  that  form,  as  in  Uhland's 
ballad  the  reapers  see  the  image  of  their  benignant 
pastor  walking  in  the  pleasant  morning.    It  informs 


PALM    SUNDAY.  137 

the  landscape  with  an  inexpressible  pathos.  A  man 
of  sorrows,  and  broken-hearted.  Reviled,  perse- 
cuted, and  martyred,  now  as  then,  and  more  than 
ever  at  Jerusalem. 

Passing  this  tract  upon  a  grassy  path,  we  crossed 
a  belt  of  low  hills,  and  descended  into  a  series  of 
basins,  or  dry  lake-like  reaches  of  arable  land. 
There  were  infrequent  groves  of  olives,  whose  sil- 
very, sere  foliage,  and  rough,  gnarled  trunks,  did 
not  disturb  the  universal  sadness  by  any  gayety  of 
form  or  feeling.  All  day  the  blue  line  of  the  Jude- 
an  hills  waved  along  the  horizon,  pointing  the  way 
to  Jerusalem.  Patches  of  grain  sang  in  the  low 
wind.  Grain  makes  the  landscape  live,  thrilling  it 
with  soft  motion.  Grass  or  turf  is  like  lining,  but 
grain  like  long  silken  hair. 

Presently  we  were  in  the  midst  of  ploughing. 
Hundreds  of  acres  of  ploughed  land  stretched  be- 
yond sight,  and  the  general  agricultural  activity 
was  strange  to  see.  The  plough  was  the  same 
that  Joseph  and  Mary  saw  when  they  fled  along 
this  land  to  Egypt,  and  the  teams  of  camels  and 
donkeys  harnessed  together,  and  the  turbanned  hus- 
bandmen in  flowing  garments,  would  have  dismayed 
our  most  antiquated  cattle-show. 

A  warm  wind  blew  with  the  waning  day,  and 
the  sun  drifted  westward  in  a  vaporous  air.     The 


138  THE    IIOWADJl    IN    SYKIA. 

camp  was  pitched  upon  one  of  the  belts  of  low 
hills  dividing  the  basins  of  land — and  the  sea, 
which  we  could  discern  from  the  tent,  moaned 
vaguely,  as  the  Judean  mountains  sank  into  night. 


II. 

MEHEMET    ALL 

I  DO  not  wonder  that  Mehemet  Ali  burned  to 
be  master  of  Syria,  and  struck  so  bravely  for  it. 

His  career  was  necessarily  but  a  brilliant  bubble, 
and  his  success  purely  personal.  That  career  was 
passed  before  the  West  fairly  understood  it.  It  was 
easier  for  the  Jews  to  believe  good  from  Nazareth 
than  for  us  to  credit  genius  in  Egypt,  and  we  should 
as  soon  have  dreamed  of  old  mummied  Cheops 
throned  upon  the  great  pyramid  and  ruling  the 
Pharaoh's  realm  anew,  as  of  a  modern  king  there, 
of  kingliness  unsurpassed  in  the  century,  except 
by  Napoleon,  working  at  every  disadvantage,  yet 
achieving  incredible  results. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  fisherman — made  his  way  by 
military  skill— recognized  the  inherent  instability 
of  the  Mameluke  government  then  absolute  in 
Egypt,  and  which  was  only  a  witless  tyranny,  sure 
to  fall  before  ambitious  sense  and  skill.  He  pro- 
pitiated the  Sublime  Porte,  whose  Viceroy  in  Egypt 
was  only  a  puppet  of  state,  practically  imprisoned 


140  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

by  the  Mamelukes  in  the  citadel — and  he  gained 
brilliant  victories  in  the  Hedjaz,  over  the  Wahabys, 
infidel  and  schismatic  Muslim. 

In  ISll,  he  accomplished  the  famous  massacre  of 
the  Mamelukes  in  the  court  of  the  citadel,  of  which 
Horace  Vernet  has  painted  so  characteristic  a  pic- 
ture, and  for  which  Mehemet  Ali  has  been  much 
execrated. 

But  in  Turkish  politics,  humanity  is  only  a 
question  of  degree.  With  Mehemet  Ali  and  the 
Mamelukes  it  was  diamond  cut  diamond.  They 
were  a  congregation  of  pestilent  vapors,  a  nest  of 
hoary-headed  tyrants,  whom  it  was  a  satisfaction  to 
humanity  and  decency  to  smoke  out  and  suffocate 
in  any  way.  Mehemet  Ali  had,  doubtless,  little 
enough  rose-water  in  his  policy  to  satisfy  the  grim- 
mest Carlyle.  The  leader  of  sanguinary  Albanians 
and  imbruted  Egyptians  against  wild  Arab  hordes 
was  not  likely  to  be  of  a  delicate  stomach. 

But  he  was  clear-eyed  and  large-minded.  He 
had  the  genius  of  a  statesman  rather  than  the 
shrewdness  of  a  general,  although  as  a  soldier  he 
was  singularly  brave  and  successful.  Of  all  his 
acts  the  massacre  of  the  Mamelukes  was,  perhaps, 
the  least  bloody,  because,  by  crushing  the  few  heads 
he  had  won  the  victory.  A  sudden  and  well-advised 
bloodshed  is  often  sure  to  issue  in  a  peace  which 


ME  HE  MET    ALL  141 

saves  greater  misery.  It  was  Cromwell's  rule  and 
it  was  Napoleon's — it  was  also  Mehemet  All's,  and 
the  results  usually  proved  its  wisdom. 

Moreover,  in  the  matter  of  this  massacre,  the 
balance  of  sympathy  is  restored  by  the  fact  that 
only  a  short  time  previous  to  the  Mamelukes'  ban- 
quet of  death  in  the  citadel,  they  had  arranged 
Mehemet  All's  assassination  upon  his  leaving  Suez. 
By  superior  cunning  he  ascertained  the  details 
of  this  pleasant  plan,  and  publicly  ordered  his 
departure  for  the  following  morning,  but  privately 
departed  upon  a  swift-trotting  dromedary  in  the 
evening.  There  was  great  consequent  frustration 
of  plan  and  confusion  of  soul  among  the  Mamelukes, 
who  had  thought,  in  this  ingenious  manner,  to  cut 
the  knot  of  difficulty,  and  they  were  only  too  glad 
to  hurry  with  smooth  faces  to  the  Pacha's  festival, 
too  much  in  a  hurry,  indeed,  to  reflect  upon  his 
superior  cunning  and  to  be  afraid  of  it.  They  lost 
the  game.  They  were  the  diamond  cut,  and  evi- 
dently deserve  no  melodious  tear. 

Mehemet  All  thus  sat  as  securely  in  his  seat 
as  a  Turkish  pacha  can  ever  hope  to  sit.  He  as- 
sisted the  Porte  in  the  Greek  troubles,  perpetrating 
other  massacres  there ;  and  afterward,  when  Abdal- 
lah,  Pacha  of  Acre,  rebelled  against  "  the  Shadow," 
Mehemet  All   was  sent   to  subdue    him.      He  did 


142  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

SO,  and  then  interceded  with  the  Porte  for  Abdal- 
lah's  safety. 

Meanwhile,  Mehemet  Ali  had  ascertained  his 
force,  and  was  already  sure  of  the  genius  to  direct 
it.  He  had  turned  the  streams  of  French  and  Eng- 
lish skill  into  the  agriculture,  manufactures,  and 
military  discipline  of  Egypt.  His  great  aim  for 
years  had  been  to  make  Egypt  independent — to 
revive  the  ancient  richness  of  the  Nile  valley,  and 
to  take  a  place  for  Egypt  among  the  markets  of  the 
world.  He  accomplished  this  so  far,  that,  restoring 
to  the  plain  of  Thebes  the  indigo  which  was  once 
famous  there,  he  poured  into  the  European  market 
so  much  and  so  good  indigo  that  the  market  was 
sensibly  affected.  His  internal  policy  was  wrong, 
but  we  cannot  here  consider  it. 

Watching  and  waiting,  in  the  midst  of  this  inter- 
nal prosperity  and  foreign  success  and  amazement, 
while  Egyptian  youth  were  thronging  to  the  Pari- 
sian Universities,  and  the  Parisian  youth  looked  to 
Egypt  as  the  career  of  fame  and  fortune — as  the 
young  Spaniards  of  a  certain  period  looked  to  the 
diamond-dusted  Americas — in  the  midst  all  the  web 
Mehemet  Ali  sat  nursing  his  ambition  and  biding 
his  time. 

Across  the  intervening  desert,  Syria  wooed  him 
to  take  her  for  his  slave.     Who  was  there  to  make 


MEHEMET    ALL  143 

him  afraid  ?  Leaning  on  Lebanon,  and  laving  her 
beautiful  feet  in  the  sea,  she  fascinated  him  with 
love.  He  should  taste  boundless  sv^ay.  Eastward 
lay  Bagdad  and  Persia,  thrones  of  caliphs  who 
once  sat  in  his  seat — why  should  not  he  sit  in 
theirs  ?  Then  with  softer  whispers  she  pointed  to 
the  Golden  Horn  and  the  Bosphorus,  and  looked 
what  she  dared  not  speak. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  he  was  enchanted.  I  do 
not  wonder  that  he  burned  to  be  master  of  the 
superb  slave  that  lay  so  lovely  and  fair  in  the  sun, 
dreaming  as  now  we  see  her  dream,  under  the  vines 
and  olives.  His  peer,  Kapoleon  Bonaparte,  against 
whom,  in  Egypt,  his  maiden  sword  was  fleshed, 
whom  he  loved  to  name  and  to  hear  that  they  were 
born  in  the  same  year,  had  thus  seen  from  Elba  the 
gorgeous  fata-morgana  of  European  empire.  How 
could  Mehemet  Ali  reflect  that  sallying  forth  to 
grasp  it,  that  peer  had  bitten  the  dust?  That  fate 
deterred  the  Pacha,  as  the  experience  of  others 
always  deters  ourselves — as  a  blade  of  grass  stays 
the  wind.  Shall  not  you  and  I,  my  reader,  swim 
to  our  Heros,  though  a  thousand  Leanders  never 
came  to  shore  ? 

It  was  this  very  Syria  through  which  we  plod, 
this  brilliant  morning,  that  seduced  Mehemet  Ali. 

A  land  of  glorious  resources  and  without  a  popu- 


144  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

lation.  Here  grow  wheat,  rye,  barley,  beans,  and 
the  cotton  plant.  Oats  are  rare ;  but  Palestine 
produces  sesame  and  dourra,  a  kind  of  pulse  like 
lentiles.  Baalbec  grows  maize.  Sugar  and  rice  are 
not  unknown  at  Bevrout.  Lebanon  is  wreathed  with 
vines.  Indigo  flourishes  without  cultivation  on  the 
banks  of  the  Jordan.  The  Druses  cultivate  the 
white  mulberry.  Gaza  has  dates  like  those  of  Mec- 
ca, and  pomegranates  as  fine  as  those  of  Algiers. 
Figs  and  bananas  make  the  gardens  of  Antioch  trop- 
ical. From  Aleppo  come  pistachio-nuts.  The  al- 
m^d,  the  olive,  and  the  orange,  thrive  in  the  kind- 
ly air ;  and  Damascus  revels  in  twenty  kinds  of 
apricot,  with  all  the  best  fruits  of  France. 

Many  of  the  inhabitants  pass  us,  and  we  can  see 
what  they  are.  They  are  repulsive  in  appearance, 
the  dregs  of  refuse  races.  They  look  mean  and 
treacherous,  and  would  offer  small  resistance  to 
determination  and  skill.  Mehemet  Ali  had  little 
fear  of  the  Syrians. 

He  could  not  resist  the  song  of  the  syren ;  and 
suddenly  "  the  Eastern  Question"  agitated  political 
Europe,  and  the  diplomatic  genius  of  the  three 
greatest  states — England,  France,  and  Russia — was 
abruptly  challenged  by  the  alarming  aspect  of  the 
Syrian  war,  which  threatened,  with  a  leader  despis- 
ing the  political  stagnation  and  military  imbecility 


MEHEMET    ALL  145 

of  the  vast  realm  of  "  the  Shadow  of  God  on  earth,'* 
to  issue  in  a  new  empire. 

Mehemet  Ali,  having  subdued  Abdallah,  Pacha 
of  Acre,  and  saved  his  life  and  throne  by  interces- 
sion with  the  Porte,  was  surprised  that  Abdallah 
harbored  all  fugitives  from  Egypt.  He  observed 
that,  following  his  own  example,  Abdallah  was  in- 
troducing the  European  discipline  into  his  army, 
and  was  enticing  into  his  service  many  young  offi- 
cers who  had  been  Europeanly  instructed  at  his  own 
expense. 

He  expostulated  with  Abdallah,  and  appealed  to 
the  Porte.  The  Sublime  Porte,  like  other  political 
sublimities,  hesitated,  meditated — 

''  Then  idly  twirled  liis  golden  chain, 
And  smiling,  put  the  question  by." 

Mehemet  Ali,  with  expectant  eyes  fixed  upon 
Syria,  sat  silent,  his  hand  trembling  with  eagerness, 
and  ready  to  grasp  the  splendid  prize.  *'  The 
cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces "  of  a 
new  oriental  empire,  rose,  possible,  in  the  light 
of  hope. 

His  army  was  carefully  disciplined.  The  fame 
of  its  tried  officers  had  been  won  upon  the  battle- 
fields of  the  empire.  He  had  a  fleet  and  all  the  re- 
sources of  the  latest  militarv  and  marine  science. 
7  ^ 


146  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYKIA. 

Over  all,  he  had  his  son  Ibrahim,  already  proved  in 
Arabia  and  Greece,  of  a  military  genius  peculiarly 
oriental,  swift,  and  stern,  rude  in  thought,  but  irre- 
sistible in  action — the  slave  of  his  father's  ambition, 
the  iron  right-hand  of  his  will.  Internal  prosperity 
and  external  prestige  sealed  Mehemet  All's  hope 
and  determination. 

Against  him  was  arrayed  the  worldly  magnifi- 
cence of  the  Ottoman  Porte.  But  the  bannered 
Muslim  lance  that  had  thundered  at  the  gates  of 
Constantinople,  and,  entering,  had  planted  itself 
upon  the  earliest  Christian  church,  and  flapped  bar- 
baric defiance  at  civilization,  was  rusty  and  worm- 
eaten.  Its  crimson  drapery  fluttering,  rent,  upon 
an  idle  wind,  would  be  inevitably  shivered  by  the 
first  rough  blow  of  modern  steel. 

And  the  great  powers  ? — 

Their  action  was,  of  course,  doubtful.  There  was 
a  chance  of  opposition,  a  probability  of  interference. 
But  the  grandeur  of  the  stroke  was  its  safety.  From 
the  universal  chaos  what  new  combinations  might 
not  be  educed  ? 

No  sooner,  therefore,  had  the  Porte  *'put  the 
question  by,"  than  Mehemet  Ali  proceeded  to 
answer  it.  The  Egyptian  army,  headed  by  Ibrahim 
Pacha,  advanced  into  Syria,  and  sat  down  before 
Acre.     Cherishing  the  old  grudge  against  Abdallah, 


MEHEMET    ALL  147 

the  Porte,  now  that  a  decided  part  had  been  taken, 
smiled  faintly  in  approval.  But  the  conduct  of  the 
war  betrayed  resources  of  ability  and  means  which 
kindled  terrible  suspicions.  The  firman  came  from 
Stamboul,  commanding  the  Pacha  of  Egypt  to  with- 
draw into  his  own  province.  He  declined,  and  was 
declared  a  rebel. 

The  bridge  thus  fell  behind  him,  and  only  victory 
or  death  lay  before. 

For  six  months  Ibrahim  Pacha  lay  before  Acre, 
and,  on  the  27th  of  May,  1S32,  he  entered,  by 
bloody  assault,  the  city  which  Richard  Coeur  de 
Lion  and  Philip  Augustus  had  conquered  before 
him,  and  from  which  Napoleon  Bonaparte  had  re- 
tired foiled.     The  Syrian  war  began. 

The  victorious  army  advanced,  triumphing.  The 
Syrian  cities  fell  before  it.  The  stream  of  conquest 
swept  northward,  overflowing  Damascus  as  it 
passed.  The  war  was  no  longer  a  quarrel  of  two 
pachas,  it  was  a  question  of  life  or  death  for  the 
Turkish  Empire.  Vainly  the  Sultan's  choicest 
generals  struggled  to  stem  the  torrent.  The  proud 
walls  along  the  Golden  Horn  trembled,  lest  their 
pride  should  be  for  the  third  time  humbled,  and  this 
time,  as  the  last,  from  the  Asian  shore. 

Northern  and  western  Europe  started  amazed  at 
the  wonderful  spectacle,  listening  across  the  hushed 


148  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Mediterranean  to  the  clang  of  arras  resounding  in 
the  effete  East,  as  the  appalled  Romans  heard  the 
gusty  roar  of  the  battle  of  the  Huns  high  over  them, 
and  invisible  in  the  air. 

Surely,  it  was  only  the  interference  of  the  three 
povrers  that  saved  the  Sultan's  throne.  That  alone 
deprived  us  of  the  pageant  of  another  oriental  mili- 
tary romance,  so  rapid  in  inception,  so  entire  in 
execution,  that  we  should  have  better  comprehend- 
ed those  sudden,  barbaric  descents  of  the  middle 
ages,  vi^hich  changed  in  a  moment  the  political  as- 
pect of  the  invaded  land — in  a  moment,  because  the 
mighty  appearance  of  life  and  power  was  but  a 
mummy,  which  a  blow  would  pulverize. 

One  man,  however  strong  and  skillful,  could  not 
withstand  the  force  of  Europe,  and  Mehemet 
Ali  retired,  baffled,  before  the  leaders  of  the  polit- 
ical trinity  that  a  few  years  before  had  dethroned 
Napoleon. 

The  crisis  of  his  life  was  passed,  and  unfavorably 
for  his  hopes  and  aims.  At  the  age  of  sixty-five  he 
relinquished  the  struggle  with  fate,  and  still  one  of 
the  great  men  of  a  century,  rich  in  great  men,  with 
no  hope  before  him,  and  none  behind — for  since 
kingly  genius  is  not  hereditary,  your  divine  right  is 
a  disastrous  fiction — ^lie  sank  slowly  away  into 
dotage. 


MEHEMET    ^i>K^MJFOm^ 

Before  the  end,  however,  both  he  and  his  son 
Ibrahim  showed  themselves  to  the  Europeans  who 
had  watched  with  such  astonislied  interest  the  cul- 
mination and  decay  of  their  power.  Ibrahim  Pacha, 
with  his  fangs  removed,  shook  his  harmless  rattle, 
for  the  last  time  in  the  world's  hearing,  at  a  dinner 
given  him  by  young  Englislimen,  at  the  Reform 
Club  in  Pall  Mall,  and  the  wreck  of  Mehemet 
Ali,  drivelling  and  dozing,  took  a  hand  at  whist 
with  young  Americans  in  a  hotel  at  JS^aples. 

Father  and  son  returned  to  Egypt,  and  died  there. 
A  vast  mosque  of  alabaster,  commenced  by  Me- 
hemet Ali,  and  now  finished,  crowns  Cairo,  "  the 
delight  of  the  imagination."  He  wished  to  be 
buried  there  ;  but  he  lies  without  the  city  walls,  in 
that  suburb  of  tombs,  upon  the  cracked  sides  of  one 
of  which  a  Persian  poet  has  written — "  Each  cre- 
vice of  this  ancient  edifice  is  a  half-opened  mouth, 
that  laughs  at  the  fleeting  pomp  of  royal  abodes." 

All  the  winds  that  blow  upon  Cairo,  laugh  that 
mocking  laughter,  and  in  any  thoughtful  mood,  as 
you  listen  to  them  and  look  over  the  city,  you  will 
mark  the  two  alabaster  minarets  of  Mehemet 
All's  mosque,  shafts  of  snow  in  the  rich  blue  air, 
if  you  will,  but  yet  pointing  upward. 

Leaning  on  Lebanon,  and  laving  her  beautiful 
feet  in  the  sea,  the  superb  slave  he  burned  to  pes- 


150  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

sess,  still  dreams  in  the  sun.  We  look  from  the 
tent-door  and  see  her  sleeping,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  this  last,  momentary  interest  which  dis- 
turbed the  slumber,  reminds  us  that  it  will  one  day 
be  broken.  So  fair  is  the  prize,  that,  knowing  all 
others  desire  her  as  ardently,  no  single  hand  feels 
strong  enough  to  grasp  it,  and  the  conflict  of  many 
ambitions  secures  her  peace. 

Yet  it  is  clear  that  nerve  and  skill  could  do  what 
they  have  done,  and  so  spare  is  the  population,  so 
imbecile  the  government,  and  so  rich  the  soil,  that 
a  few  thousand  determined  men  could  march  imre- 
sisted  through  Syria,  and  possess  the  fair  and  fer- 
tile land. 


III. 

ADVANCING. 

This  last  throb  of  life,  in  the  history  of  Syria, 
invades  but  for  a  musing  moment  the  abiding  inter- 
est of  the  land.  Yet  as  MacWhirter  lumbers  slug- 
gishly along  you  cannot  escape  the  mood  of  reverie 
through  v^hich  the  various  forms  of  its  fate  will 
pass. 

The  landscape  is  still  of  the  same  open,  basin- 
like  character,  and  of  course  lies  toward  the  hills 
of  Judea,  which  seem,  this  morning,  like  the  misty 
Jura  seen  from  Lake  Leman.  The  nearer  country 
swells  and  moves  in  vivid  lines  of  green,  and  the 
fresh  young  leaves  of  the  fig,  upon  the  heavy  limbs, 
are  touched  by  the  sun  into  golden  flakes.  The 
fences  are  hedges  of  prickly  pear.  The  houses  are 
of  clay  or  stone,  where  it  can  be  found,  clean-look- 
ing for  such,  and  warmer  than  the  Egyptian  houses. 
Scant  garden-plots  of  vegetables  dot  the  fields,  and 
presently,  over  olive  groves,  we  see  the  domed 
tombs  of  Ramleh. 

Here  we  strike  the  main  road  from  Jaffa,  on  the 


152  THE    HO  WAD  J 1    IN  SYRIA. 

coast,  to  Jerusalem.  It  was  a  high-road  of  the 
Crusaders  in  old  times,  and  of  Christian  pilgrims 
now.  The  sun  has  seen  fairer  sights  upon  it  than 
the  Howadji  are  likely  to  see ;  but  they  recall  one 
of  its  legends  as  they  pass. 

According  to  the  "  Saga  of  Sigurd,  the  Crusader," 
King  of  Norway,  when  that  fair-haired  young  mon- 
arch reached  Jaffa,  on  a  pilgrimage,  in  1110,  King 
Baldwin  of  Jerusalem  apparently  doubted  whether, 
if  there  were  such  a  region  as  Norway,  its  king 
could  be  a  king  genuinely  royal.  True,  therefore, 
to  the  free  masonry  of  royalty,  he  ordered  costly 
draperies  to  be  spread  along  the  road,  from  the 
shore  to  the  mountains,  saying  that  if  Sigurd  rode 
over  them  he  was  doubtless  used  to  such  luxury  at 
home,  and  would  thereby  approve  himself  a  king. 
But  if  he  avoided  them,  he,  in  turn,  must  be  avoided 
as  a  shabby  and  suspicious  potentate. 

The  ship  came  to  shore,  and  King  Sigurd  de- 
barking, mounted  his  horse  and  rode  carelessly  over 
the  gorgeous  cloths,  as  if  his  road  all  over  the  earth 
were  so  carpeted.  And  the  good  king  Baldwin, 
charmed  by  the  easy  grace  which  certified  his 
guest's  habituation  to  regal  luxury,  received  him 
"particularly  well." 

More  delightful  than  this,  and  in  the  true  Arabian 
strain,  is  the  story  of  Sigurd's  entry  into  Constanti- 


ADVANCING.  153 

nople,  where  he  surpassed  by  his  fabulous  splendors 
all  the  extravagance  of  oriental  genius. 

"  Fabulous  splendors  of  course  they  were,"  hum- 
med the  inexorable  Pacha,  as,  turning  our  backs 
upon  Ramleh,  and  following  in  Sigurd's  footsteps, 
I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  suppose  that,  if  Baldwin, 
king  of  Jerusalem,  heard  of  our  coming,  he  would 
carpet  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  send  us  picked 
Arabians  whereon  to  caracole  over  the  carpet  to 
his  palace. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  the  crispness  of  his  answer 
arose  from  the  sudden  contrast  in  his  mind,  of  a 
carpeted  road  and  an  Arabian,  with  the  stony  path 
over  which  he  was  jogging,  upon  jerking  old  El 
Shiraz.  For,  although  a  very  estimable  animal,  he 
did  one  morning  tumble  over  sideways,  just  as  the 
Pacha  was  gurgling  him  down. 

On  which  occasion,  also,  MacWhirter,  seeing  like 
Golden  Sleeve's  Pomegranate  at  another  time,  that 
he  had  fallen  too  far  behind,  relentlessly  set  for- 
ward on  his  soul-shaking  trot,  while  I  was  sitting 
upon  him  sideways,  surveying  Syria  through  blue 
goggles,  and  holding  the  blue  cotton  umbrella  over 
my  head.  The  violent  motion  caused  me  instantly 
to  slide,  as  the  unhappy  Golden  Sleeve  slid,  not 
backward,  indeed,  but  sideways,  down  Mac  Whir- 
ter's  flanks.  Clutching  the  stakes  before  and  be- 
7* 


154  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

hind,  I  instantly  sacrificed  the  blue  umbrella,  which 
was  planted  by  the  wind,  like  a  huge  mushroom, 
in  the  desert. 

Struggling,  in  alarm,  to  throw  my  right  leg  over 
the  saddle  and  so  balance  myself,  I  expostulated  with 
MacWhirter,  and  with  spasmodic  energy  pulled  the 
halter  until  I  drew  his  head  quite  round,  and  saw 
his  cold  devilish  eyes  fronting  my  alarmed  face.  He 
enjoyed  my  apprehension  too  much,  and  I  pulled 
his  head  back  again,  while  I  dangled  at  his  side, 
conscious  that  if  I  slipped  off  he  might  betake 
himself  into  the  desert,  leaving  me  to  foot  it  on  to 
the  caravan,  from  which  I  could  not  be  perceived, 
and  which  advanced  through  the  sand  about  as 
rapidlj''  as  I  could  wnlk.  But  I  finally  threw  my 
leg  to  the  other  side  and  clung  to  him  until  he 
overtook  the  caravan  and  relaxed  his  speed  and  my 
suflfering. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Pacha,  seeing  me  at  the 
mercy  of  MacWhirter,  naturally  wished  to  show  to 
the  sun  which  had  seen  Sigurd's  horsemanship,  a 
little  artistic  camel  management,  and  imperiously 
gurgled  El  Shiraz  down.  Bending,  and  rocking, 
and  groaning,  he  began  to  kneel,  but  in  the  very 
act,  he  fell  sideways,  and  the  Pacha's  leg  escaped 
an  ignominious  doom  only  by  a  sudden  spring. 

The  chagrin  of  that  moment  was  in  his  mind,  I 


ADVANCING.  155 

am  sure,  when  he  said  curtly — "Fabulous  splen- 
dors of  course  they  are." 

The  sun  burned  over  the  fertile  valley.  Don- 
keys, camels,  and  horses  passed  us  upon  the  road, 
along  whose  sides  active  ploughing  was  going  on. 
Of  each  traveller  we  met,  we  inquired  if  he  came 
from  El  Khuds,  Jerusalem — and  more  anxiously,  if 
he  had  seen  the  venerable-bearded  Armenian,  who 
w^as  to  join  the  Jaffa  road  before  arriving.  Some 
said  yes,  and  some  said  no,  and  some,  with  sublime 
disdain,  passed  silently.  The  mien  of  one  of  the 
latter  kind,  a  grave  and  white-bearded  old  Turk, 
whose  only  emotion  seemed  to  be  incredulous  sur- 
prise that  he  should  be  supposed  to  know  any 
thing,  reminded  me  of  Koeppen's  pleasant  story. 

Koeppen  was  pursuing  his  archaeological  investi- 
gations at  Constantinople,  and  with  nervous  energy 
and  earnestness  was  one  day  speculating  upon  the 
cannon  ball  which  is  built  into  the  city  walls,  near 
one  of  the  gates.  He  ran  to  and  fro,  and  surveyed, 
and  calculated,  and  surmised :  then  pondered,  wrote 
and  wondered — the  very  incarnation  of  antiquarian 
zeal — and  at  length  espied  a  grave  group  of  Muslim, 
seated,  and  tranquilly  smoking  in  the  shade.  Like 
a  fly  upon  the  Sphynx,  was  the  Professor's  deter- 
mined activity  before  their  profound  repose.  But 
suddenly  rushing  up  to  them — spectacles  elevated, 


156  THE    HOV\^ADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

book  and  pencil  in  hand — he  addressed  one  of  them 
in  rapid  Turkish,  and  inquired  if  he  could  tell  any- 
thing about  the  spot. 

The  sublime  ignorance  of  the  Turk  recoiled  at 
this  imputation  of  knowledge.  But  without  rising, 
he  slowly  removed  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  as 
if  it  were  enough  that  Allah  knew  all,  he  said  con- 
temptuously, 

"  You  Frank,  I  don't  know  what  I  had  for  break- 
fast."— 

Crossing  a  little  ridge,  we  came  nearer  to  the 
mountains.  I  fancied  the  eyes  of  Khadra  lighting 
the  dark  gorges,  and  in  the  afternoon  we  entered  a 
narrow  valley  of  the  hills  of  Judea.  As  we  left  the 
wide  plain  smiling  in  the  sun,  I  heard  a  voice  in 
my  mind  crying :  "  In  those  days  came  John  the 
Baptist  preaching  in  the  wilderness  of  Judea."  I 
looked  upon  the  rough  edges  of  that  wilderness, 
and  saw  that  they  were  low,  and  stony,  and  tree- 
less. The  valley  was  planted  with  bright  green 
grain,  and  in  the  lone  water-courses  among  the 
stones,  there  was  the  blent  beauty  of  a  thousand 
wild  flowers. 

But  upon  tl^e  steep  mountain  sides,  rocks  and 
sterile  patches  lay  in  grim  desolation,  consoled  by 
infrequent  shrub  oaks  and  laurel ;  and  winding 
among  them,  deeper  and  farther  into  the  hills,  by 


ADVANCING  157 

lonely  huts  and  ruined  wells,  and  ragged  olive- 
groves  upon  terraces,  v^e  found  a  spot  less  dreary 
than  the  most,  and  there  the  camp  was  pitched. 


IV. 

JERUSALEM  OR  ROME. 

Among  the  mountains,  the  night  air  was  as  cold 
as  that  of  our  October.  The  camp  lay  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  narrow  gorge,  and  the  door  of  the  tent 
commanded  the  valley  behind  us. 

Golden  Sleeve  warned  us,  as  he  brought  in  the 
leathery  tea,  that  this  was  the  very  place  to  antici 
pate  the  onset  of  ^^  bad  people, ^^  and  we,  remember- 
ing the  oriental  proverb  that  "  the  worst  Muslim  are 
those  of  Mecca,  and  the  worst  Christians  those  of  Je- 
rusalem," were  ready  to  believe.  But  it  was  worth 
while  to  come  to  Jerusalem,  were  it  only  to  prove 
that  there  could  be  "  worse  Christians"  than  those 
we  had  left  behind. 

Nor  was  it  more  consoling  when  the  commander 
entered  later  in  the  evening,  to  announce  the  arrival 
of  a  party  of  Muslim  pilgrims  ;  for  Jerusalem  is  holy 
to  the  sons  of  the  Prophet  as  well  as  to  us.  I  in- 
quired anxiously  if  they  were  making  the  pilgrim- 
age for  the  first  time.  For  what  say  the  astute 
Arabians  ?      *'  If  thy  neighbor  have  made  one  pil- 


JEKUSALEM    OR    ROME.  159 

grimage,  distrust  him.     But  if  he  have  made  two, 
make  haste  to  leave  thy  house." 

These  little  ripples  of  incident  died  away  upon  the 
surface  of  the  grave  thoughts  of  that  evening.  Je- 
rusalem was  then  no  fable  or  dream,  but  it  lay 
beyond  these  mountains,  and  I  should  see  it  to- 
morrow. 

I  wrapped  myself  in  my  capote,  and  sat  smoking 
at  the  door  of  the  tent. 

To  any  young  man,  or  to  any  man  in  whose  mina 
the  glow  of  poetic  feeling  has  not  yet  died  into  **  the 
light  of  common  day,"  the  first  view  of  a  famous 
city  is  one  of  the  memorable  epochs  of  life.  Even 
if  you  go  directly  from  common-place  New  York  to 
common-sense  London,  you  will  awake  in  the  night 
with  a  hushed  feeling  of  awe  at  being  in  Shakespeare's 
city,  and  Milton's,  and  Cromwell's.  More  agree- 
able to  your  mood  is  the  heavy  moulding  of  the  ban- 
quetting-room  of  Whitehall,  than  the  crystal  splen- 
dors of  the  palace  in  the  park.  Because  over 
the  former  the  dusk  of  historical  distance  is 
already  stealing,  removing  it  into  the  romantic  and 
ideal  realm. 

But  more  profound,  because  farther  removed  from 
the  criticism  of  contemporary  experience,  is  the  inter- 
est of  the  Italian  cities.  They  represent  character- 
istic  epochs  of  human  history.     Rome,  Florence 


160  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

Venice,  are  not  names  merely,  but  ideas.  They 
were  the  capitals  of  power,  that,  in  various  ways  and 
degrees,  ruled  the  world. 

Deeper  still  is  the  feeling  that  hallows  the  cities 
beyond  Italy;  for  beyond  Italy  are  Athens  and  Je- 
rusalem. 

Rome,  Athens,  and  Jerusalem — the  physical,  the 
intellectual,  and  the  moral,  do  we  long  doubt  which 
is  the  greatest  ? 

The  art  of  Greece  is  still  supreme.  The  Empire 
of  Rome  has  never  been  rivalled.  But  the  spirit 
which  has  inspired  art  with  a  sentiment  profounder 
than  the  Greek — the  faith  which  has  held  sway 
subtler  and  more  universal  than  the  Roman — are 
they  not  the  spirit  and  the  faith  that  make  Jeru- 
salem, El  Khuds  or  the  holy,  because  they  were 
best  illustrated  and  taught  by  a  life  whose  influence 
commenced  there  ? 

More  cognate  to  ready  sympathy,  more  appeal- 
ling  to  the  sensuous  imagination  is  the  pomp  of  im- 
perial Rome,  as  with  camp-fires  burning  from  the 
Baltic  to  the  Euxine,  and  from  farthest  Euphrates 
to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  its  gorgeous  confusion  of 
barbaric  splendor  and  Grecian  elegance,  gleams 
athwart  the  past. 

Fascinated  by  tliat  splendor,  as  by  auroral  fires 
streaming  through  the  sky — recognizing  tho  forms 


JERUSALEM    OR    ROME.  IGl 

of  its  law,  its  society,  and  its  speech,  inherent  in  his 
own — marking  over  all  historic  lands  and  submerg- 
edin  African  solitudes  the  foot-prints  of  its  triumph- 
ant march,  the  young  student  revering  in  Rome 
the  might  of  his  own  human  genius,  going  out  to 
possess  the  earth,  reaches  the  gates  of  its  metropolis 
with  an  ardor  that  merges  in  romance. 

Hence  were  hurled  the  thunderbolts  that  shook 
the  world,  and  whose  vibrations  tremble  yet.  Hither 
come  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  the  statesman,  the 
scholar,  and  in  no  city  of  the  world  w^as  there  ever 
assembled  so  much  human  genius  in  every  kind,  and 
in  every  time,  as  in  Rome. 

Do  you  remember,  Xtopher,  when  we  came  to 
Rome  over  the  hushed  desolation  of  the  Campagna, 
that  separates  it  from  the  rest  of  populous  Italy,  as 
the  grim  belt  of  the  middle  ages  separates  it  in  his- 
tory from  modern  times  ? 

It  was  at  sunset  of  a  late  October  day.  Trees  had 
not  waved  to  us  nor  birds  sang  since  we  left  the 
park-like  woods  of  Civita  Castellana  in  the  sultry, 
cloudy  morning.  Solitary  shepherds  in  rough  skins, 
knitting  and  croning  melancholy  songs,  and  the  in- 
frequent curl  of  smoke  from  some  tomb  or  volcanic 
cave  inhabited  by  lonely  men,  were  the  only  signs 
of  life.  Sad,  low  ranges  of  bare  hills  melting  into 
the    level  distances,   the   confused    undulation   of 


162  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

brown  turf,  and  the  ghosts  of  distant  mountains 
shrinking  over  the  horizon,  were  all  the  features  of 
the  landscape. 

Yet,  at  times,  even  there,  where  it  seemed  that 
human  genius  had  never  coped  with  the  mysterious 
desolation,  the  sudden  ring  of  the  horses'  hoofs  up- 
on solid  pavement  reminded  us  that  the  broad 
smooth  stones  were  the  Flaminian  Way,  one  of  the 
avenues  of  old  Rome  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth,  and  we  sank  away  in  reveries  of  the  days 
when  this  barren  landscape  was  a  sea  of  grain  sing- 
ing to  the  very  gates  of  Rome. 

We  were  silent  and  thoughtful,  that  Campagna 
day.  Day  never  to  be  forgotten,  whose  pensive  sun 
can  never  set.  The  drowsy  tinkle  of  the  horses' 
bells,  the  monotonous  minor  of  the  vetturino's  song 
— sound  yet  in  memory,  clearly  and  sadly  as  then, 
nor  are  drowned  by  the  glorious  bursts  of  many 
orchestras,  nor  by  the  passionate  pathos  of  the  Mise- 
rere, heard  since  that  day. 

The  afternoon  was  waning  when  we  reached  the 
edge  of  a  little  hill.  Upon  those  dreams  of  Rome, 
rose  suddenly  Rome  itself.  It  lay  beyond  us  and  be- 
low,  silent  and  solemn.  A  group  of  domes  and 
spires  only,  the  rest  was  hidden  by  a  hill.  But  as 
we  proceeded,  the  city  advanced  into  view,  a  long 
procession  of  architectural  pomp — domes,  and  spires, 


JERUSALEM    OR    ROME.  163 

and  campaniles  mingling  in  rich  confusion,"  until, 
when  all  had  passed  before,  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's 
closed  the  pageant  like  a  monarch.  In  the  last 
rays  of  the  sud,  the  golden  cross  blazed  in  air.  Lost 
in  a  chaos  of  memories,  expectations,  and  dreams,  we 
leaned  from  the  carriage  and  gazed  at  Rome. 

So,  as  I  smoked  the  pipe  of  meditation  at  the  door 
of  the  tent,  among  the  hills  of  Judea,  waiting  for 
the  day  which  should  lead  me  to  Jerusalem,  return- 
ed the  vivid  image  of  the  moment  and  the  feelings 
which  led  me  to  Rome.  It  was  natural,  for  Rome 
and  Jerusalem,  as  the  two  extremes,  are  the  two 
most  memorable  cities  of  history. 

Yet,  against  the  claims  of  its  superb  Italian  rival, 
what  has  the  Syrian  city  to  show  ? 

Not  Solomon  in  all  his  glory;  for  Hadrian  was  more 
magnificent,  if  less  wise.  Nor  the  visible  career  of 
the  Jews,  whose  empire  was  greatest  under  Solomon, 
but  was  then  only  a  part  of  a  later  Roman  province. 
Jerusalem  does  not  rival  Rome  by  the  imperial 
pomp  of  its  recollections,  nor  by  its  artistic  achieve- 
ments ;  for  its  only  notable  remains  are  part  of  the 
foundation  of  Solomon's  Temple,  while  the  most  im- 
posing ruins  of  Syria  are  the  Roman  relics  of  Pal- 
myra and  Baalbec.  Nay,  Rome  came  from  Italy, 
and  scattering  the  Jews,  destroyed  Jerusalem. 

To  the  myriads  of  men  who  throng  whole  centu- 


164  THE    HOWADJI    IN    Sl'KIA. 

ries  of  his  tory — as  thearmy  of  Xerxes  the  plains  of 
Greece — headed  by  the  eagle  and  asserting  Rome, 
Jerusalem  opposes  a  single  figure,  bearing  a  palm 
branch,  and  riding  upon  an  ass  into  the  golden  gate 
of  the  city.  That  palm  is  the  magic  wand  which 
shall  wave  the  discordant  world  into  harmony  ;  that 
golden  gate  is  the  symbol  of  the  way  which  only 
he  can  enter  who  knows  the  magic  of  the  palm. 
That  single  figure  is  the  most  eminent  in  history, 
the  highest  hope  of  art  is  to  reveal  his  beauty — 
The  sublimest  strains  of  literature  are  the  prophe- 
cies and  records  of  his  career — the  struggle  of  so- 
ciety is  to  plant  itself  upon  the  truth  he  taught. 

In  the  vision  of  the  past,  as  upon  an  infinite  bat- 
tle-field, that  single  figure  meets  the  might  of  Rome, 
and  the  skill  of  Grreece,  and  the  wit  of  Egypt,  and 
the  flame  of  their  glory  is  paled  before  his  glance. 
He  rode  in  at  the  golden  gate,  and  was  crucified 
between  thieves.  But  it  is  the  victim  which  conse- 
crates the  city.  In  vain  the  heroism  of  the  repub- 
lic and  the  purple  splendor  of  the  empire,  would 
distract  imagination  and  give  a  deeper  charm  to 
Rome.  The  cold  auroral  fires  stream  anew  to  the 
zenith,  as  we  sit  in  the  starlight  at  the  tent  door 
But  a  planet  burns  through  them  brighter  than 
they,  and  we  no  longer  discuss  which  city  we  ap- 
proach with  the  profoundest  interest. 


V. 

THE  JOY  OF   THE   WHOLE    EARTH. 

Before  the  stars  faded  the  tent  was  struck.  In 
the  brilliant  dawn  a  party  of  Russian  pilgrims  rode 
by  into  the  mountain  gorge.  Leaving  MacWhirter 
to  follow  with  the  caravan,  I  ran  on  alone,  up  the 
ravine  and  toward  Jerusalem. 

The  path  climbed  steeply  by  the  side  of  a  dry 
water-course,  and  led  through  a  succession  of 
mountain  defiles.  The  air  was  exhilarating  and 
birds  sang.  The  wind  was  fresh  and  cool,  and  a 
thousand  flowers  were  beautiful  upon  the  barren 
hills.  Sometimes- the  hills  were  terraced  with  rock, 
sometimes  covered  with  loose  stones,  and  the  gray 
olive  leaves  twinkled  in  the  rising  sun. 

Many  of  the  valleys  were  green  and  lovely.  As 
in  Italy,  the  little  towns  were  built  high  upon  the 
hillsides.  But  no  sweets  bells,  as  in  Italy,  rang 
through  the  morning  air.  I  passed  the  ruins  of  two 
churches,  dating  probably  from  the  Crusades. 
They  were  massive  and  picturesque.  Hanging 
plants  waved  over  them   funereally   in  the  bright 


166  THE    HOWADJI    IN     SYRIA. 

air,  and  the  gnarled  old  olives  clustered  about  them 
in  dumb  sadness. 

But  although  I  paused  under  the  olives  which  had 
probably  seen  the  builders  of  the  churches  and  knew 
all  the  chances  of  their  fate — they  v^hispered  nothing 
in  my  ear:  only,  as  the  morning  breeze  rustled  in 
their  foliage,  I  seemed  to  hear  the  wild  music  of  six 
centuries  ago  pealing  faintly  through  the  valley — at 
least  it  was  the  best  expression  the  trees  could  give 
to  their  remembrance  of  it — and,  in  distant  olive 
groves,  shimmering  in  the  sun,  I  saw  the  flashing 
spears  and  crests  of  the  Crusaders'  army. 

The  mountain  air  was  exhilarating.  I  ran  eager- 
ly up  the  winding  road,  hoping  that  each  turn 
would  reveal  Jerusalem  ;  but  from  each  new  height 
only  the  billowy  panorama  of  hills  unrolled  around 
me,  the  surface  fading  from  vivid  green  into  the 
blue  haze  of  distance. 

Upon  one  of  these  paths  I  overtook  a  pilgrim. 
He  was  evidently  a  poor  European,  and  was  going 
patiently  forward  by  the  side  of  a  small  donkey, 
with  a  Muslim  driver.  The  pilgrim  carried  a  small 
pack  upon  a  stick  over  his  shoulder.  I  was  passing 
him  relentlessly,  but  his  forlorn  aspect  made  me 
pause,  and  he  greeted  me  with  a  German  good 
morning. 

It  was  a  German  tailor  apprentice,  w^ho  had  come 


THE    JOY    OF    THE    WHOLE    EARTH.       167 

down  the  Danube  to  Constantinople,  and  had  thence 
sailed  to  Jaffa.  Landing  there  he  had  hired  a  don- 
key, and  was  now  coming  to  Jerusalem.  And  the 
reason  he  gave  for  the  journey  was  that  it  was 
something  besonders  (odd)  to  go  to  Jerusalem. 

Truly  the  Crusaders,  whose  track  he  followed, 
had  not  suffered  more  upon  the  way.  He  had 
experienced  every  kind  of  small  mishap,  and  he 
detailed  his  sufferings  with  all  the  gossipy  querulous- 
ness  of  his  countrymen.  It  had  rained,  and  blown, 
and  frozen,  during  the  voyage  from  Constantinople, 
and  he,  as  a  deck  passenger,  had  been  the  butt  of 
the  fierce  elements.  He  thought  it  an  outrage  that, 
upon  a  German  boat,  only  one  person  spoke  Ger- 
man. That  person  was  the  cook,  and  he  probably 
employed  that  tongue  only  to  snub  and  buffet  the 
poor  pilgrim,  for  the  latter,  with  an  air  of  great  dis- 
gust, said  the  cook  was  a  dummJcopf  (a  block- 
head). 

But  bad  as  was  the  sea-voyage,  the  land-journey 
was  worse.  Here  nobody  spoke  German,  and  don- 
keys wouldn't  go,  and  his  ankle  was  swelled,  and 
if  Jerusalem  was  far  away,  he  certainly  could  not 
reach  it  that  day,  although  he  had  been  going  since 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Then,  with  a  movement  of  despair,  he  made  a 
rush  at  the  donkey  to  get  on.     But  the  saddle-cloth 


168  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

fell  off,  and  when  it  was  arranged  the  donkey  stood 
still,  and  absolutely  declined  to  stir. 

"But  you  shouldn't  pay  a  para,"  said  I,  "for 
such  a  beast  as  that." 

^'-  Ja,  mein  Herr,  (yes,  sir),  but  I  have  paid,"  said 
he  with  a  remorseful  shrug. — 

The  driver  then  made  some  suggestions  in  Arabic, 
doubtless  of  great  practical  value,  but,  unfortunate- 
ly, unintelligible. 

*'  Wie  meinen  Sie,  was  sagen  Sic  ?  (what  do  you 
say  ?)"   inquired  the  poor  Teuton  in  bland  despair. 

For  they  could  not  understand  each  other,  and 
although  the  donkey  would  not  go  with  the  Ger- 
man, I  observed  that  he  moved  nimbly  enough  with 
his  master. 

But  I  could  not  tarry  for  the  swelled  ankle,  and 
the  slow  donkey,  and  the  slower  Teuton.  I  walked 
with  him  for  a  half-hour,  gave  him  what  advice  I 
could,  comforting  him  by  the  assurance  that,  even 
at  his  rate  of  travel,  he  would  reach  Jerusalem 
by  sunset,  and  then  wished  him  good-day. 

— "  Leben  Sie  wohl  (farewell),"  said  he,  in  a  mel- 
ancholy tone,  as  I  ran  along.  ^^  Leben  Sie  wohl: 
ach  !  mein  Gott^  mem  Gott  /" 

The  mountains  rose  more  grandly,  and  I  clam- 
bered up  to  broad,  stony  table-lands,  whence  the 
prospect  \^  as  bleak  and  sad.      Vast  ranges  of  bare 


THE    JOY    OF    THE    WHOLE    EARTH.        169 

hills  receded  to  the  horizon.  "  In  those  days  came 
John  the  Baptist  preaching  in  the  wilderness  of 
Judea." 

I  passed  rapidly  over  this  lofty,  breezy  table-land, 
with  an  inconceivable  ardor  of  expectation.  Often 
the  pinnacles  and  shining  points  of  rock  upon  a 
distant  hillside,  startled  me  with  a  doubt  that  I 
saw  Jerusalem  ;  and,  at  every  change  in  the  land- 
scape, 1  paused  and  searched  the  mountainous  deso- 
lation to  distinguish  the  city.  But  the  majestic 
play  of  morning  vapors  with  the  sun  and  the  moun- 
tains, mocked  the  scrutiny  of  the  longing  traveller, 
and  gradually  inspired  a  statelier  hope. 

As  I  paced  more  slowly  along  the  hills,  the  words 
of  the  psalm  suddenly  rang  through  my  mind,  like 
a  sublime  organ-peal  through  a  hushed  cathedral : 
"Beautiful  for  situation,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth 
is  Mount  Zion,  on  the  sides  of  the  north,  the  city 
of  the  Great  King — ." 

They  passed;  but  in  their  stead  arose  an  imperial 
vision. 

Through  the  stupendous  vista  of  rocky  mountain- 
sides, I  should  behold  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth, 
lifted  upon  a  lofty  hill,  flashing  with  the  massive 
splendor  of  towers,  and  domes,  and  battlements, 
darkened  by  the  solemn  sadness  of  cypresses,  and 
graceful  with  palms.     The  delicate  outlines  of  hang- 


170  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

ing  gardens,  of  marble  terraces  and  balconies,  and 
airy  pavilions  should  cluster  within.  Triumphant 
bursts  of  music,  "with  trumpets,  also,  and  shawms," 
and  the  chime  of  bells,  harmonious  with  the  soft  ac- 
claim of  friendly  voices,  should  breathe  and  pulse 
from  the  magnificent  metropolis,  and  preach,  more 
winningly  than  John,  in  the  wilderness  of  Judea. 

In  the  summer  of  that  Syrian  noon,  this  was  the 
spectacle  I  thouglit  to  see,  the  majesty  of  its  as- 
sociations manifested  in  the  city. 

And,  as  I  knew  it  nearer,  I  walked  more  slowly, 
dreaming  that  dream.  The  camels  of  Wind  and 
Shower  passed  us  returning  from  Jerusalem.  Our 
caravan  overtook  me,  and  I  went  forward  with  the 
Pacha  and  the  commander. 

The  high  land  unrolled  itself  more  broadly.  The 
breezy  morning  died  into  silent  noon.  In  the  im- 
minent certainty,  the  eagerness  of  expectation  was 
passed.  Golden  Sleeve  preceded  us  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  we  followed  silently.  Suddenly  he  stop- 
ped, and,  without  turning  or  speaking,  pointed 
with  his  finger  toward  the  north. 

We  reached  his  side  and  looked.  There  was  a 
low  line  of  wall,  a  minaret,  a  black  dome,  a  few  flat 
roofs,  and,  in  the  midst,  a  group  of  dark,  slender 
cypresses,  and  olives,  and  palms. 

There  lay  Jerusalem,  dead   in  the  white  noon. 


THE    JOY    OF    THE    WHOLE    EARTH.        171 

The  desolation  of  the  wilderness  moaned  at  hei 
gates.  There  was  no  suburb  of  trees  or  houses. 
She  lay  upon  a  high  hill,  in  the  midst  of  hills  barren 
as  those  we  had  passed.  There  were  no  sights  or 
sounds  of  life.  The  light  was  colorless ;  the  air 
was  still.  Nature  had  swooned  around  the  dead  city. 
There  was  no  sound  in  the  air,  but  a  wailing  in  my 
heart.  "  0  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  thou  that  stonest 
the  prophets,  and  killest  those  that  are  sent  unto 
thee  !*' 


VI. 

0    JERUSALEM! 

Jerusalem  stands  upon  the  point  of  the  long 
reach  of  table-land  over  which  we  had  approached 
it,  as  upon  a  promontory. 

The  ravines  betwen  the  city  and  the  adjacent  hills 
are  the  valleys  of  Jehoshaphat  and  Hinnom.  The 
Mount  of  Olives  is  the  highest  of  these  adjacent 
hills,  and  commands  Jerusalem.  It  is  crowned  by 
a  convent,  deserted  now,  and  at  its  foot  toward  the 
city,  on  the  shore  of  the  brook  Kedron,  is  the  gar- 
den of  Gethsemane — a  small  white-walled  inclosure 
of  old  olives. 

There  are  no  roads  about  the  city.  It  is  not  ac- 
cessible for  carriages,  nor  would  its  narrow  streets 
permit  them  to  pass.  This  profound  silence  char- 
acterizes all  the  eastern  cities,  in  which  wheels  do 
not  roar,  nor  steam  shriek,  and  it  invests  them,  by 
contrast,  with  a  wonderful  charm.  The  ways  that 
lead  to  the  gates  of  Jerusalem,  are  horse-paths,  like 
dry  water-courses.     No  dw^ellings  cluster  about  the 


O    JERUSALEM!  173 

city,  except  the  village  of  Siloam,  a  town  of  "  had 
peop/e,"  a  group  of  gray  stone  houses  on  the  steep 
side  of  the  deepest  part  of  the  valley  of  Jehosha- 
phat.  In  that  valley  also  is  the  tomb  of  Absalom — a 
clumsy  structure,  but  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
objects  outside  the  walls — and  the  graves  of  the 
Jews  covered  with  flat  slabs,  the  great  number  of 
which  crowded  together,  seems  to  pave  parts  of  the 
valley.  Pools  and  fountains  are  there  also,  sacred 
in  all  Cliristian  memories. 

Toward  the  southeast  from  the  city,  the  moun- 
tain lines  are  depressed,  and  the  eye  escapes  to  the 
dim  vastness  of  the  Moab  Mountains,  brooding  over 
the  Dead  Sea.  From  the  Mount  of  Olives  you  see 
the  Dead  Sea,  dark  and  misty,  and  solemn,  like 
Swiss  lakes  seen  from  mountains  among  mountains 
The  hill-sides  around  the  city  are  desolate.  But  in 
the  valley-bottoms,  en  the  soil  that  has  washed  from 
the  hills,  are  olive  groves,  and  in  the  largest  and 
fairest  stands  a  ruin  of  no  great  antiquity,  but 
pictliresque  and  graceful  among  the  trees.  This 
ruin  and  the  mossy  greenness  and  fresh  foliage 
around  the  pool  where  "  the  waters  of  Siloam  go 
softly"  are  the  only  objects  which  are  romantic  ra- 
ther than  grave,  in  the  melancholy  landscape. 

These   are  the  features  of  that  bright  and  arid, 
but  still  melancholy,  landscape.     It  lies  hushed  in 


174  THE    IIOVVADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

awe  and  desolation  ;  and  sad  as  itself  are  the  feelings 
with  which  you  regard  it. 

One  only  figure  is  in  your  mind  ;  but  remembering 
him  and  all  his  personal  and  traditional  relations 
with  the  city,  the  single  pure  romance  which  flashes 
across  the  gravity  of  its  history,  returns  to  you  as 
you  gaze.  Looking  wistfully  from  the  walls,  you 
hear  again,  as  under  the  olive-trees  in  the  moun- 
tains, the  barbaric  clang  of  the  Crusaders'  army. 
Listen,  and  listen  long.  The  finest  strain  you 
hear,  is  not  the  clash  of  arms  or  the  peal 
of  trumpets.  The  hush  of  this  modern  noon 
is  filled  with  the  murmurous  sound  of  chanted 
psalms,  and  along  the  olive  valleys,  toward  Mount 
Olivet,  you  see  the  slow  procession  of  the  Christian 
host,  not  with  banners,  but  with  crosses,  to-day, 
pouring  on  in  sacred  pomp,  singing  hymns,  and  the 
hearts  of  Saracens  within 'the  walls  are  chilled  by 
that  strange  battle-cry. 

Night  and  silence  follow.  Under  the  Syrian 
stars,  this  motley  host,  driven  by  fierce  religious 
fury  from  the  whole  civilized  world,  kneels  in  its 
camp  around  Jerusalem,  singing,  and  praising  God. 
The  holy  sound  dies  while  we  listen,  and  the  clash 
of  arms  arises,  with  the  sun,  upon  the  air. 

Jerusalem  bleeds  rivers  of  blood,  that  flow  down 
the  steep  mountain  sides,  and  a  roar  more  terrible 


O    JERUSALEM!  175 

than  the  raging  sea  curdles  the  hot  silence  of  noon. 
The  clash  of  arms  dies,  with  the  sun,  upon  the  air. 
No  muezzin  at  twilight  calls  to  prayer.  But  in  the 
court  of  the  Temple,  ten  thousand  of  his  faith  lie 
slain,  and  the  advancing  Crusaders  ride  to  their 
horses'  bellies  in  blood.  It  is  the  15th  of  July, 
1099,  and  that  evening  Jerusalem  is,  for  the  first 
time,  properly  a  Christian  city. 

But  once  more,  while  we  yet  stand  lost  in  these 
memories  of  the  city,  an  odor,  as  of  rose-water, 
sweetens  the  air.  The  Christian  bells  have  ceased 
ringing  suddenly.  A  long  procession  files  from  the 
gates,  and  the  voice  of  the  muezzin  again  vibrates 
through  the  city.  It  is  Saladin,  Sultan  of  the 
Saracens,  who  is  purifying  the  mosque  of  Omar, 
who  is  melting  the  Christian  bells,  and  dragging 
the  Christian  cross  through  the  mire ;  but  who,  re- 
ceiving the  Christian  prisoners  with  gracious  cour- 
tesy, repays  their  sanguinary  madness  with  oriental 
generosity,  sending  them  away  loaded  with  presents, 
and  retaining  in  the  city  the  military  friars  of  St. 
John,  to  nurse  the  sick. 

Thus  bold  and  defined,  like  its  landscape,  are  your 
first  emotions  in  Jerusalem. 

But  while  you  stand  and  see  the  last  pomp  of  its 
history  pitching  its  phantom-camp  around  the  city, 
the  sun  is  setting.     The  bare  landscape  fades  away 


176  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Around  you  are  domes  and  roofs,  and  beyond  the 
walls  you  see  the  convent  of  the  Mount  of  Olives. 
Thoughts  more  solemn  than  these  romantic  dreams 
throw  their  long  shadows  across  your  mind,  even 
as  the  shadows  of  the  minarets  fall  upon  the  silent 
city.  Again  you  see  the  waving  of  palm-boughs, 
and  a  faint  cry  of  hosanna  trembles  in  the  twilight. 
Again,  that  figure  rides  slowly  in  at  the  golden 
gate,  and  you  hear  the  voice — "  Daughter  of  Zion, 
behold  thy  King  cometh  unto  thee,  meek,  and  sit- 
ting upon  an  ass." 


VII. 

WITHIN    THE    WALLS. 

Within  the  walls,  Jerusalem  is  among  the  most 
picturesque  of  cities.  It  is  very  small.  You  can 
walk  quite  round  it  in  less  than  an  hour.  There 
are  only  some  seventeen  thousand  inhabitants,  of 
whom  nearly  half  are  Jews.  The  material  of  the 
city  is  a  cheerful  stone,  and  so  massively  are  the 
lofty,  blind  house-walls  laid,  that,  in  pacing  the 
more  solitary  streets,  you  seem  to  be  threading  the 
mazes  of  a  huge  fortress.  Often  the  houses  extend 
over  the  street,  which  winds  under  them  in  dark 
archways ;  and  where  there  are  no  overhanging 
buildings,  there  are  often  supports  of  masonry 
thrown  across  from  house  to  house.  There  are  no 
windows  upon  the  street,  except  a  few  picturesque, 
projecting  lattices. 

Jerusalem  is  an  utter  ruin.  The  houses,  so  fair 
in  seeming,  are  often  all  crumbled  away  upon  the 
interior.  The  arches  are  shattered,  and  vines  and 
flowers  wave  and  bloom  down  all  the  vistas.     The 

streets  are  never  straight  for  fifty  rods  ;  but  climb 

8* 


178  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

and  wind  with  broken  steps,  and  the  bold  buildings 
thrust  out  buttressed  corners,  graced  with  luxuriant 
growths,  and  arched  with  niches  for  statue  and  foun- 
tain. It  is  a  mass  of  "  beautiful  bits,"  as  artists 
say.  And  you  will  see  no  fairer  sight  in  the  world, 
than  the  groups  of  brilliantly-draped  orientals 
emerging  into  the  sun,  from  the  vine-fringed  dark- 
ness of  the  arched  ways. 

Follow  them  as  they  silently  pass,  accompanied 
by  the  slave  who  bears  the  chibouque.  Follow,  if 
it  be  noon,  for  soon  you  will  hear  the  cry  to  prayer, 
and  they  are  going  to  the  mosque  of  Omar. 

There  are  minarets  in  Egypt  so  beautiful,  that, 
when  completed,  the  sultan  ordered  the  right-hand 
of  the  architect  to  be  struck  off,  that  he  might  not 
repeat  the  work  for  any  one  else.  They  are,  indeed, 
beautiful — yet  if  their  grace  cost  but  a  hand,  the 
beauty  of  this  mosque  were  worth  a  head. 

The  mosque  of  Omar  occupies  the  site  of  Solo- 
mon's temple,  about  an  eighth  of  the  area  of  the 
whole  city.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  object  in  Jeru- 
salem, and  the  most  graceful  building  in  the  East. 
It  is  not  massive  nor  magnificent ;  but  the  dome, 
bulbous,  like  all  oriental  domes,  is  so  aerial  and  ele- 
gant, that  the  eye  lingers  to  see  it  float  away  or  dis- 
solve in  the  ardent  noon. 

The  mosque  of  Omar  is  octagonal  in  form,  and 


WITHIN    THE    WALLS.  179 

built  of  bluish-white  marble,  over  the  sacred  stone 
on  which  Jacob  dreamed,  and  whence  Mohammed 
ascended  to  heaven.  It  is  one  of  the  two  temples  of 
the  Muslim  faith,  that  of  Mecca  being  the  other. 
These  temples  are  consecrated  by  the  peculiar  pre- 
sence of  the  Prophet,  and  are  only  accessible  to 
true  believers.  Ordinary  mosques  are  merely  places 
of  worship,  and  are  accessible  to  unbelievers,  sub- 
ject only  to  the  stupid  intolerance  of  the  faithful. 

The  beautiful  building  stands  within  a  spaciou: 
inclosure  of  green  lawn  and  arcades.  Olive,  orange, 
and  cypress-trees,  grow  around  the  court,  which,  in 
good  sooth,  is  '*  a  little  heaven  below,"  for  the  Mus- 
lim, who  lie  dreaming  in  the  soft  shade,  from  morn- 
ing to  night.  It  is  a  foretaste  of  Paradise,  in  kind, 
excepting  the  houris.  For,  although  the  mosques 
are  not  forbidden  to  women,  Mohammed  said  it 
would  be  better  for  them  to  have  prayers  read  by 
eunuchs  in  their  own  apartments. 

In  the  picturesque  gloom  and  brightness  of  the 
city,  the  mosque  is  a  dream  of  heaven  also,  even  to 
the  unbelievers. 

There  are  many  entrances,  and,  as  you  saunter 
under  the  dark  archways  of  the  streets,  and  look 
suddenly  up  a  long  dim  arcade  upon  the  side,  you 
perceive,  closing  the  vista,  the  sunny  green  of  the 
mosque  grounds,  and  feel  the  warm  air  stealing  out- 


ISO  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

ward  from  its  silence,  and  see  the  men,  and  women, 
and  children  praying  under  the  trees. 

Or  at  sunset,  groups  of  reverend  Muslim  pass 
down  the  narrow  street,  returning  from  prayer, 
looking  like  those  Jewish  doctors,  who,  in  the  old 
pictures,  haunt  the  temple  on  this  very  site. 

It  is  an  "  amiable  tabernacle  "  that  you  behold. 
You  feel  how  kindly,  how  cognate  to  the  affections 
of  piety,  are  the  silence  and  freedom  of  this  temple — ■ 
its  unaffected  sobriety,  the  sunny  spaces  upon  mar- 
ble terraces,  and  the  rich  gloom  of  orange  darkness 
in  which  the  young  children  play  and  the  fountains 
sing,  so  that  no  place  on  earth  is  so  lovely  to  those 
children,  and  so  much  desired. 

The  sagacity  of  the  Roman  Church  aimed  at 
gratifying  this  instinctive  requirement  in  religious 
associations,  of  an  atmosphere  of  beauty,  by  its 
patronage  of  art.  In  place  of  this  cypress  darkness, 
it  has  the  dimness  of  colored  glass — for  these  blow- 
ing roses,  it  spreads  muslin  flowers  upon  its  altars 
— for  these  bars  of  sunshine,  it  parades  gold.  Thus 
its  churches  have  the  aspect  of  eternal  summer  and 
twilight ;  and  thus  flowers,  the  symbol  of  the  per- 
fection of  external  nature,  serve  but  as  ornaments 
in  the  worship  of  the  Creator,  while  the  twilight 
hushes  and  subdues  the  mind  into  religious  reverie. 

— You   know  not  how  long  you  thus  stand,  in 


WITHIN    THE    WALLS.  181 

pleasant  thought,  looking  down  the  dim  arcade,  to 
that  golden  green.  But  if  your  steps  obey  your 
wish,  and  lead  you  toward  the  gate,  some  grisly 
and  grim  old  negro  steps  athwart  the  sun,  and 
brandishes  his  club  about  your  head,  heaping  such 
scornful  curses  upon  it,  that  you  remember,  with 
savage  satisfaction,  the  Crusaders  riding  breast  deep 
in  Muslim  gore,  within  those  very  precincts ;  but, 
for  the  same  reason,  you  do  not  much  wonder  at  the 
surliness,  and  clubs,  and  curses,  of  the  old  negro. 

One  day,  as  I  stood  looking  in  with  great  longing, 
and  wondering  whether  the  green,  jasper  door  of 
Paradise,  which  is  in  the  mosque,  was  indeed  so 
beautiful  as  the  poets  tell  those  sitters  in  the 
sun,  I  wished  that  I  had  been  Sir  John  Mandeville, 
Knight,  or  eke  one  of  his  "  companye."  For  he 
says — 

'*  I  came  in  there  and  in  othere  places  where  I 
wolde  ;  for  I  hadde  Lettres  of  the  Soudan,  with  his 
grete  seel;  and  commonly  other  men  have  but  his 
Signett.  In  the  whiche  Lettres  he  commanded  of 
his  specyalle  grace  to  all  his  Subgettes,  to  lete  me 
seen  alle  the  places,  and  to  informe  me  pleynly  alle 
the  mysteries  of  every  place,  and  to  condyte  me 
fro  Cytee  to  Cytee,  zif  it  were  nede.  and  buxomly  to 
receyve  me  and  my  Companye." 

Whether  it  were  pity  for   me,  or  pride  in  the 


182  THE    HOVVADJ]    IN    SYRIA 

beauty  of  the  temple  which  aiFected  him,  I  know 
not,  but  the  old  Muslim  graybeard  who  that  day 
was  the  Cerberus  of  Paradise,  did  seem  to  look 
upon  me  as  a  poor,  miserable  peri,  and  he  stroked  his 
beard  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  in  struggle 
with  his  conscience  whether  to  let  me  in.  I  looked 
very  modest  and  humble,  and  altogether  unworthy 
to  enter  the  sacred  precincts,  hoping  that  Moham- 
med would  work  a  miracle  for  me. 

But  graybeard  was  inflexible.  I  had  no  •*  grete 
seel,"  not  even  the  *'  Signett  of  the  Soudan,"  al- 
though, indeed,  a  firman  from  the  sultan  himself  to 
enter  the  mosque  would  be  regarded  as  an  awful 
sacrilege.  It  is  pleasant  in  Jerusalem  to  see  human 
nature  assert  its  imperiality,  and  to  remember  how 
individual  Komanists  question  the  conduct  of  the 
Pope,  and  individual  Muslim  that  of  the  Command- 
er of  the  Faithful,  although  both  are  theoretically 
regarded  as  God's  Vicegerents. 

The  beautiful  mosque  is  the  centre  of  picturesque 
and  poetic  interest  in  this  city,  and  we  were  pleas- 
antly lodged  not  far  from  it.  The  door  of  our  room 
opened  upon  a  house-top :  for  now,  as  of  old,  in 
those  soft  eastern  climates,  you  may  live  in  the  air 
upon  the  roof,  and  understand  the  force  of  the  pro- 
phecy, that  those  upon  the  house-tops  should  not 
come  down. 


WITHIN    THE    WALLS.  183 

At  night,  the  moonlight  slept  along  the  still, 
steep  Via  Dolorosa,  which  we  saw  from  our  win- 
dow, and  the  Mount  of  Olives  rose  dark  against  the 
east.  At  morning,  the  song  of  birds  mingling  with 
the  muezzin's  cry  awakened  us,  and  Jerusalem  lay 
so  silent  in  the  Syrian  day  that  Marianna  in  the 
moated  grange  was  not  awakened  to  more  slumber- 
ous stillness. 

We  step  into  the  streets  half  wondering  if  there 
is  any  population  there.  Blear-eyed,  melancholy 
spectres  swarm  along  the  narrow  ways,  trailing 
filthy  garments,  but  with  intense  scorn  of  the  clean 
unbelievers.  Lepers  sit  by  the  sunny  walls,  and 
your  soul  cries  *'  unclean,  unclean,"  while  you 
loosen  your  purse-strings.  Pilgrims  of  all  kinds  and 
faiths  pass,  wondering,  and  the  trade  of  Jerusalem 
is  in  religious  relics.  In  this  metropolis  of  three 
religions,  Islam,  Christianity,  and  Judaism,  only  the 
first  and  last  have  each  a  single  external  feature 
that  is  beautiful  in  remembrance — the  mosque  of 
Omar  and  the  wailing  at  the  stones  of  the  Temple. 
The  Christianity  peculiar  to  Jerusalem  is  unmiti- 
gatedly  repulsive. 

Our  old  friend,  poet  Harriet  Martineau,  speaks  a 
good  deal  of  the  pain  of  being  hated,  and  she  cer- 
tainly suffered  unhandsome  martyrdom  in  the  mil- 
let-stalks thrown  in  her  face,  and  the  pouting  and 


184  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

spitting  of  small  children.  Bat,  bating  the  grizzly 
old  negro  at  the  gate  of  Paradise,  I  never  received 
any  more  unpleasant  treatment  than  that  silent 
scorn  which  I  liked  to  see.  It  was  doubly  grateful 
in  Jerusalem,  because  it  expressed  the  feeling  that 
few  can  escape  for  such  Christians  as  you  see  there. 
When  a  Turk  scorned  me  with  his  eyes  in  passing 
I  knew  that  he  thought  me  a  fellow  of  the  Christ- 
ians he  was  used  to  see,  and  as  I  had  the  same  im- 
patience in  my  heart  when  I  passed  them,  I  could 
not  be  angry  that  he  lacked  the  discrimination  to 
see  that  I  was  no  ordinary  eastern  Christian,  but  a 
great  American  Mogul. 

The  Muslim  are  peaceable  enough  ;  for  they  are 
prodigious  cowards.  In  1832,  these  stout  gates  of 
Jerusalem  opened  to  Ibrahim  Pacha  without  a  blow. 
The  children  pout  sometimes,  and  laugh  at  the 
Christian,  may  even  throw  a  missile  at  him  when 
they  are  safely  behind  a  wall  or  door.  But  there  is 
no  hate  in  their  hearts.  The  child  smiles,  and  his 
eyes  flash  more  brilliantly — although  one  day  that 
smiling  will  be  scorn,  and  that  flash  the  fire  of  hate. 
Of  course,  cowards  are  always  valiant  against  the 
weak,  and  a  European  woman  is  a  very  unpleasant 
phenomenon  to  the  orientals.  It  is,  therefore,  not 
difficult  to  believe  that  poet  Harriet's  tribulations 
were  disagreeably  real. 


WITHIN    THE    WALLS.  186 

There  are  no  rich  men  in  Jerusalem.  Every 
one  has  the  air  of  a  citizen  of  ruins,  and  begs  like  a 
Belisarius. 

The  oriental  genius  applied  to  begging  is  delight- 
ful. It  has  the  same  sententious  gravity  that  marks 
it  in  every  development,  and  the  same  poetic 
phrase.  I  was  constantly  sure  that  I  saw  the  Mecca 
beggar  of  whom  Burckhardt  tells  a  characteristic 
story. 

Upon  his  first  visit  to  Mecca,  that  traveller  had 
employed  a  delyl,  or  guide,  who  was  useful  to  him. 
But  when  he  came  again  he  had  no  use  for  him. 
He  told  him  so.  But  the  undaunted  delyl  came 
regularly  to  Burckhardt's  dinner,  and,  after  satisfying 
his  present  hunger,  he  produced  a  small  basket 
which  he  ordered  his  host's  slave  to  fill  with  bis- 
cuits, meat,  vegetables,  or  fruit,  which  he  carried 
away  with  him.  Every  three  or  four  days  he  asked 
for  money — saying  loftily,  "  It  is  not  you  who  give 
it ;  it  is  God  who  sends  it  to  me." 

Burckhardt  soon  wearied  of  this  arrangement, 
and  told  the  delyl,  with  great  emphasis,  that  he 
could  endure  it  no  longer. 

In  three  days  the  delyl  returned  and  begged  a 
dollar. 

— '*  God  does  not  move  me  to  give  you  anything," 
replied  Burckhardt  gravely,  "if  he  judged  it  right 


186  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

he  would  soften  my  soul,  and  cause  me  to  give  you 
my  whole  purse." 

"Pull  my  beard,"  said  the  delyl,  '*  if  God  does 
not  send  you  ten  times  more  hereafter  than  I  beg  at 
present." 

'*  Pull  out  every  hair  of  mine,"  replied  Burck- 
hardt,  *'  if  I  give  you  one  para  until  I  am  convinced 
that  God  will  regard  it  as  a  meritorious  act." 

Upon  hearing  which  the  delyl  arose  suddenly 
and  walked  away,  saying  sublimely,  *'  We  fly  for 
refuge  to  God,  from  the  hearts  of  tjie  proud,  and  the 
hands  of  the  avaricious." 

Legless  old  Beppo,  of  the  Spanish  steps  in  Rome, 
was  more  cheerful,  if  less  sublime,  under  disappoint- 
ment. If  you  refused  the  baioccho  to  his  hat  held 
toward  you  with  a  broad  leer  of  confidence,  he  only 
smiled  and  said,  ''^  Dun  que  do?nani,  Signore  (To-tnor- 
row  then,  sir)." 


VIII. 

BETHLEHEM. 

The  scenery  of  the  Gospel  story  is  vague  until 
you  are  in  Palestine.  Literature  and  art,  forgetting 
climate  and  costume,  set  the  events  of  that  history 
in  the  landscape  and  atmosphere  they  know.  All 
the  religious  pictures  lack  local  truth.  The  temple 
in  Raphael's  Spozalizio^  is  of  the  Roman  architec 
ture  of  his  day.  Paul  Veronese's  Suppers  and  Mar- 
riage Feasts  are  gorgeous  chapters  of  Venetian  life, 
and  this — which  is  fair  enough  in  Italian  pictures, 
of  which  the  essential  character  was  so  striking  and 
beautiful — reaches  the  extremest  absurdity  in  the 
Dutch  sacred  pictures,  especially  Teniers'  St.  I^ter 
in  Prison.  It  is  fair  enough,  viewed  by  strict  art, 
yet  it  is  a  loss  to  the  pictures;  for  this  golden  air, 
and  picturesque  costume,  and  lovely  landscape, 
would  have  singularly  deepened  their  effect. 

So  we  said  as  we  rode  over  the  bare  hills  to  Beth- 
lehem, and  paused  at  the  well  of  which  David  long- 
ed to  drink,  but  poured  out  the  water  unto  the 
Lord. 


188  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Scant  patches  of  grain  and  banks  of  wild  flowers 
waved  gaily  to  us  as  we  mounted  again,  wondering 
if,  haply,  from  this  spot  the  wise  men  saw  the  star. 
The  distant  hill-sides  were  the  fields  of  Boaz.  The 
artistic  eye  of  Leisurlie  was  struck  with  the  sweeps 
of  the  mountain  lines,  whose  sides  uniting  at  the 
base,  allowed  no  proper  valleys,  but  only  a  narrow 
water-course.  The  landscape  was  bare  and  sere 
with  the  melancholy  olive,  and,  above  a  grove  of 
figs  and  olives,  rose  upon  a  hill-top,  the  gray  walls 
of  Bethlehem. 

— "  How  beautiful,"  said  Leisurlie,  '*  would  be 
this  landscape  in  a  picture  of  Ruth.  How  just  in  a 
religious  picture,  of  which  the  chief  interest  is  a 
woman,  this  olive  mountain-side  crowned  with  gray 
Bethlehem,  in  which  a  woman  gave  the  world  its 
best  gift." 

He,  too,  we  mused,  as  our  eyes  wandered  over 
the  lands  of  Boaz,  but  a  gleaner  in  the  fields  of 
Time — yet  whose  harvests  heap  the  future  like  a 
granary. 

Our  way  rolled  through  the  billowy  land,  and  we 
reached,  at  length,  stern  little  Bethlehem,  sitting, 
like  a  fortress,  upon  the  mountain. 

A  large  church  is  its  chief  feature,  and  as  you 
stand  in  its  cold  vastness,  you  would  be  in  Italy, 
except  for  the  swarthy  faces,  whose  mysterious  eyes 


BETHLEHEM.  189 

follow  your  movements  with  grave  curiosity.  It  is 
nothing  but  a  large,  cold  church,  garrisoned  by  a  few 
friars,  and  seems  discordant  with  that  spot  where 
nothing  cold  or  bare  should  be.  With  very  min- 
gled emotions  you  descend  toward  the  grotto,  di- 
rectly under  the  church,  which  makes  Bethlehem 
famous. 

Winding  with  tapers  down  narrow  steps,  you 
emerge  in  the  irregular  excavations  among  the  rock, 
and  behold  what  they  call  the  cell  of  St.  Je- 
rome. But  you  do  not  linger.  The  Franciscan 
precedes  you  to  the  grotto  of  the  Nativity,  and 
there  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  of  its  identity. 

He  opens  the  door.  A  gleam  of  soft  light,  and  a 
warm  odor  of  incense  stream  outward.  In  that 
moment  there  is  no  more  Franciscan,  nor  Italian 
church,  nor  taper.  Your  knees  bend  beneath  you 
and  your  eyes  close 

They  open  upon  the  grotto,  gorgeous  with  silver 
and  golden  lamps,  with  vases  and  heavy  tapestries, 
with  marbles  and  ivories — dim  with  the  smoke  of 
incense,  and  thick  with  its  breath.  In  the  hush  of 
sudden  splendor  it  is  the  secret  cave  of  Aladdin,  and 
you  have  rubbed  the  precious  lamp. 

Then  your  sense  is  seized  in  the  voluptuous  em 
brace  of  the  odors — of  the  brilliant  flames,  motion- 
less in  the  warm  air — of  the  sheen  of  tapestry,  and 


190  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

the  flexile  richness  of  the  monks'  robes  at  the  altar, 
and  your  dazzled  sense  reels,  an  intoxicated  Roman, 
through  tliis  Bethlehem  grotto,  which  the  luxurious 
Hadrian,  after  Rome  had  conquered  Jerusalem,  con- 
secrated to  Adonis. 

But  you  see  that  it  is  low  and  irregular,  that  the 
ceiling  and  walls  are  rock — that  it  is  only  a  rough 
place  of  refuge  if  you  strip  away  gold  and  tapestry. 
You  see  human  figures  stretched  motionless  upon 
the  ground,  kissing  a  small  circle  of  jasper  with  silver 
rays — the  shrine  of  all  Christendom.  The  figures 
do  not  rise.  They  lie  for  long,  long  minutes  speech- 
less— tears  streaming  from  their  eyes,  and  a  sob 
vibrating  at  intervals  through  the  grotto.  As  you 
gaze,  the  vision  of  the  Bethlehem  landscape  returns 
to  you — lonely,  solemn,  bare.  The  warm  sweet  air 
in  which  you  stand  is  filled  with  strange  music, 

— "  Divinely  warbled  voice 

Answering  the  stringed  noise." 

And  its  measures,  like  the  waving  of  palms  in  the 
moonlight,  breathe  through  your  heart,  "  on  earth 
peace,  good-will  to  men." 

These  are  your  mingled  emotions  in  the  grotto  of 
Bethlehem.  Romance  and  religion  blend  there 
more  closely  than  at  any  other  spot  in  the  Holy 
Land. 


BETHLEHEM.  191 

Climbing  again  into  daylight,  you  look  from  the 
lofty  windows  of  the  refectory  of  the  convent  down 
upon  the  field  of  the  shepherds.  It  is  a  steep 
mountain-side,  dotted  with  olives.  It  is  not  glad 
and  gracious,  as  if  that  music,  like  heavenly  dew, 
kept  it  fresh  forever.  Sad  is  the  landscapes  and 
the  day  at  Bethlehem. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  strikes  across  the  moun- 
tains as  you  return.  Silent  and  pensive,  your  talk  is 
no  more  of  pictures.  You  ride  along  the  "  fuUe 
fay  re  waye,  be  pleynes  and  wodes  fulle  deletable," 
as  good  Sir  John  Mandeville  found  the  road  to 
Bethlehem.  And  if  a  solitary  rose  redden  the  sun- 
set in  the  fields,  you  remember  his  story  of  the  maid 
who  was  martyred  here,  and  as  the  fire  began,  she 
prayed,  and  the  burning  brands  became  red  rose- 
trees,  and  the  unburnt,  white  rose-trees,  full,  both, 
of  blossoms  and  the  first  roses  that  ever  bloomed. 


IX. 

LIFE    IN    DEATH. 

'•Yes,"  said  Leisurlie,  "lam  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  the  proverb.  At  least,  whatever  may  be 
the  fact  of  the  Muslim  at  Mecca,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  Christians  in  Jerusalem  are  the  worst  of 
all  Christians." 

*'  Heaven  help  us,  then,"  commented  the  Pacha. 

It  was  in  the  warm  twilight,  and  we  had  been 
riding  all  day  outside  of  the  city,  down  in  the  val- 
leys among  the  olive  groves,  delighting  in  the  many 
points  far  below  the  walls,  whence  we  looked  up 
through  nearer  trees,  vineyards,  and  fig  groves,  and 
saw  the  battlements  of  Jerusalem  looming  along 
the  verge  of  the  abyss. 

Grrand  and  endless  material  of  picture  is  here. 
Bartlett,  in  his  picture  of  the  Pool  of  Siloam,  shows 
its  form.  But  in  all  the  Eastern  illustrations  of  that 
accomplished  artist,  the  desert  and  river  are  too 
much  adapted  to  the  meridian  of  the  drawing-room 
The  views  represent  the  rude,  and  majestic,  and 
desolate  country,  too  much  as  the  fancy  of  Laura 


LIFE    IN    DEATH.  ]93 

Matilda  figures  it.  The  grand  pathos  of  the  Syrian 
landscape  is  not  there,  except  to  those  in  whose 
minds  the  forms  of  the  pictures  refresh  the  feeling 
of  actual  experience. 

Returning  at  sunset  to  the  city,  we  passed  Wind 
and  Shower,  accompanied  by  a  half-dozen  friars, 
sallying  forth  upon  a  walk  toward  the  garden  of 
Gethsemane.  The  good  fathers  were  very  snuffy, 
and  shambled  vigorously  along.  The  gentlemen 
of  eclectic  costume  and  creed,  glided  sentimentally 
at  their  sides. 

And  thus,  we  mused,  the  world  over,  sturdy 
superstition  leads  sentiment  by  the  nose. 

But  the  sun  had  set  while  we  climbed  the  hill, 
and  the  gates  of  Jerusalem  were  closed. 

We  rode  up  to  them  and  knocked.  There  came 
no  response,  and  as  the  shadows  deepened,  the 
desolation  of  the  stony  hills  became  more  desolate 
as  we  thought  of  passing  the  night  in  a  tomb. 

"We  must  open  a  parley,"  said  Leisurlie,  and  by 
way  of  prelude,  we  all  thundered  in  unison  upon 
the  gate  of  St.  Stephen. 

There  came  no  reply.     But  over  the  city  walls 

Qoated  the  cry  of  many  muezzin,  like  melancholy 

music  in  the  air.    Al-la-hu-Ak-har,  Al-la-hu-Ak-har, 

sighed  the  wind  along  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat. 

Jerusalem  was  an  enchanted  city,  m  that  moment 
9 


194  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYR14. 

a  vast  palace  of  Blue  Beard,  and  we  heard  the 
moaning  cry  of  the  victims,  heedless  of  their  de- 
liverers thundering  at  the  gate. 

—  "Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends," 
cried  Leisurlie,  "  and  this  time  keep  it  up  until 
consequences  of  some  kind  ensue." 

Holding  the  horses,  we  battered  the  gates  again, 
nor  desisted,  until  we  heard  a  voice  within.  The 
words  we  could  not  distinguish,  but  could  easily 
imagine  them  to  be  in  harmony  with  Blue  Beard's 
Castle— "What  ho!  without  there,"  in  Turkish. 

"  What  ho  !  within  there,"  cried  the  dramatic 
Leisurlie. 

We  paused  to  hear  the  undoing  of  bars  and  bolts 
But  we  did  not  hear  them.  Only  a  reiterated  Turk- 
ish "  What  ho !" 

— "We  must  communicate  with  them,"  said  the 
valiant  Leisurlie,  rather  vaguely;  for  we  were  alone, 
and  our  supply  of  Arabic,  Turkish,  Syriac,  or  of  and 
available  tongue,  hardly  equalled  the  Italian  of  Kha- 
dra's  mother. 

"  Precisely,"  said  the  Pacha,  who  had  sadly  bruis- 
ed his  knuckles  in  the  onset,  "we  must  communi- 
cate with  them." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  let's  communicate,"  perorated  I. 

We  paused.  After  a  few  moments,  Leisurlie,  as 
if  rehearsing  and  composing  a  speech,  began — 


LIFE    IN    DEATH.  195 

*'  Howadji  Ingleez,  (English  travellers)."  Then 
he  paused,  and  the  Pacha  added — 

"  Buckshcesh,  (Reward)." 

"  BuJcara,  (To-morrow),"  I  struck  in. 

"  Tdib  Jcateir,  (Very  good),"  concluded  Leisurlie; 
and  we  left  the  riddle  to  the  reading  of  the  guards 
inside.  We  meant  to  say  with  oriental  brevity, 
"Admit  the  English  gentlemen,  and  be  well  paid 
to-morrow." 

The  negotiation  was  successful.  The  everlast 
ing  gates  of  Jerusalem  lifted  up  their  heads,  and  as 
we  clattered  over  the  pavement,  through  streets 
which,  like  those  of  Pompeii,  are  only  stone  ruts 
between  elevated  walks,  we  saw  crowds  of  pil- 
grims thronging  the  streets,  and  remembered  that 
it  was  Good  Friday  evening. 

There  had  been  arrivals  at  the  hotel.  Nile 
friends  from  Cairo,  by  the  Long  Desert  and  Mount 
Sinai.  The  Rev.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Duck,  and  the 
dragoman-ridden  Eschylus.  But  Verde  Giovane 
was  gone.  He  had  already  subdued  Jerusalem, 
and  was  marching  upon  Damascus. 

In  his  place,  however,  Mercury,  whimsical  god 
of  travel,  presented  Frende  to  our  attention — the 
good  English  Quaker  youth,  who  had  burst  out  of 
England,  celibacy,  and  the  drab  propriety  of  Qua- 
kerism, at  one  leap;  and  now,  in  the  most  brilliant 


196  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

of  blue  body-coats,  with  brass  buttons,  flaming 
waistcoats,  and  other  glories  untold,  was  making 
his  bridal  tour  in  the  East. 

Frende's  plans  of  life  were  original.  He  had  not 
travelled  in  England,  had  scarcely  been  to  London, 
never  upon  the  Continent ;  but,  like  Verde,  had 
shipped  himself  and  bride  directly  from  Southamp- 
ton to  Alexandria.  He  did  everything  in  the  East, 
that  everybody  else  did.  You  had  but  to  hunt  up 
some  impossible  place  in  the  Guide-book,  ahd  sug 
gest  it  to  Frende — and  he  departed  the  next  morn 
ing  to  explore  it.  It  struck  me  with  surprise,  that 
on  such  occasions,  his  alacrity  was  in  the  degree  of 
his  anticipation  of  damp,  slimy  places ;  but  I  soon 
learned  the  reason.  When  the  East  was  accom- 
plished, he  proposed  to  visit  and  explore  America, 
and  then  return  to  the  strict  privacy  of  English 
country  life. 

I  soon  learned  the  reason  why  he  visited  damp 
places  with  ardor.  He  had  what  my  French  friend 
Guepe  calls  une  specialke^  and  that  was  a  passion  for 
reptiles.  It  seemed  to  be  only  a  sense  of  duty  to 
that  department  of  zoology  which  had  brought  him 
to  the  East. 

One  day  upon  the  Nile  he  had  invited  Verde 
Giovane,  with  whom  he  had  a  mysterious  affinity, 
to  visit  his  boat,  and  after  dinner  Frende  assured 


LIFE    IN    DEATH.  197 

him  with  trembling  delight  that  he  had  found  a 
new  species  of  ichneumon,  which,  it  seems,  he  pro- 
nounced as  if  spelled  aitchneumon. 

Verde,  whose  mind  had  been  confused  by  the 
Greek  and  other  architectural  names  in  Egypt,  fan- 
cied it  was  a  new  kind  of  temple,  and  remember- 
ing one  name  of  learned  sound  and  meaning  not 
to  be  surpassed,  he  asked  with  the  anxiety  of  an 
antiquary — 

**  Has  it  a  propylon  ?" 

"  Aitchneumon,"  whispered  Frende  excitedly. 

*'  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  replied  Verde  vaguely. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  it?"  demanded  Frende, 
tartly,  rather  hurt  at  the  lack  of  enthusiasm  for 
ichneumons. 

Verde  answered  at  random,  for  he  had  no  clue 
to  an  idea  in  the  matter ;  and  Frende,  touched  by 
his  indifference,  declined  to  show  it,  merely  remark- 
ing that  he  "  had  him  in  a  box." 

*'  Good  heavens !"  said  Verde,  and  rapidly  took 
leave. 

*'  Gunning,"  cried  he  to  his  companion,  as  he  ran 
breathless  into  the  cabin  of  his  own  boat,  "  Gun- 
ning, Frende  has  H.  Newman  in  a  box!" 

Nor  was  it  until  Gunning  explored  the  mystery  by 
questioning  Frende,  that  he  discovered  there  was  no 
unhappy  Mr.  Newman  boxed  up  on  Frende's  boat. 


198  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Frende  had  a  fine  career  upon  the  desert.  When 
he  approached  Mount  Sinai,  his  dragoman  shouted 
and  raised  his  finger.     Frende  beckoned  to  him. 

"  Achmet,"  said  he,  "  ten  piastres  for  the  first 
scorpion  from  Sinai." 

Whenever  he  alighted,  either  for  lunching  or 
encamping,  he  drew  out  a  large  jar  of  specimens 
preserved  in  spirits,  ran  rapidly  about  the  space  for 
a  long  distance  beyond  the  spot,  and  turning  over 
all  the  promising  stones  he  consigned  to  the  jar 
whatever  reptiles,  worms,  little  snakes,  scorpions, 
bugs,  or  beetles  rewarded  his  search.  When  it  was 
too  late  to  find  more,  he  ran  back  to  the  tent,  drank 
his  tea,  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  went  to  bed. 
In  the  morning  he  devoted  all  the  time  of  preparation 
for  departure  to  the  interests  of  science,  and  during 
the  day's  march  his  contemplation  of  the  precious 
jar  was  only  interrupted  by  searching  glances  over 
the  desert  to  detect  any  signs  of  zoological  promise 
in  stones  or  shrubs. 

This  evening,  in  Jerusalem,  I  was  telling  the 
story  of  our  day's  ride  in  the  valleys  to  the  younger 
Miss  Duck,  and  dwelt  somewhat  elaborately  and  fer- 
vently upon  the  beauty  of  Siloam  in  the  rich  after- 
noon light,  with  Jerusalem  towering  above.  I  was 
even  attempting  some  poetical  reminiscences  from 
Byron,  Bishop  Heber,  and  Tasso,  when  Frende,  who 


LIFE    IN    DEATH.  199 

had  been  attending  very  patiently,  ventured  to  in- 
terrupt my  romance  and  quotations,  exclaiming, 

*'  Beautiful,  my  dear  sir,  truly  beautiful ;  I  seem 
to  see  Siloam.  Pray,  did  you  anywhere  on  the 
damp  wall  observe  a  new  species  of  the  centipede  ?" 

Leisurlie  smiled. 

*'  For  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live", 
said  he,  as  he  took  his  candle. 


X. 

ON  THE  HOUSE-TOP. 

The  mosque  of  Omar  is  the  most  beautiful  ob- 
ject in  Jerusalem,  and  the  church  of  the  Sepulchre 
is  the  most  unpleasant. 

The  solemnity  of  the  landscape  around  the  city, 
its  silence  and  desolation,  impress  the  mind  strongly 
with  the  spiritualism  of  Christianity,  and  to  a  de- 
gree that  almost  reaches  severity.  You  feel  that 
not  only  the  sanctity  of  the  city,  but  the  austerity 
of  the  landscape,  fostered  the  asceticism  of  the  early 
hermits  here. 

The  image  of  Christ  in  your  mind  perpetually 
rebukes  whatever  is  not  lofty  and  sincere  in  your 
thoughts,  and  sternly  requires  reality  of  all  feeling 
exhibited  in  Jerusalem.  In  Rome,  you  can  tolerate 
tinsel,  because  the  history  of  the  Faith  there,  and 
its  ritual,  are  a  kind  of  romance.  But  it  is  intoler- 
able in  Jerusalem,  where,  in  the  presence  of  the 
same  landscape  and  within  the  same  walls,  you 
have  a  profound  personal  feeling  and  reverence  for 
Jesus. 


ON    THE    HOUSE-TOP.  201 

As  you  meditate  the  features  of  his  character,  and 
the  beauty  of  holiness  penetrates  your  mind  more 
deeply — as  you  recognize  the  directness  of  his 
teaching  and  the  simplicity  of  his  life — as  you  feel 
how  constantly  he  appealed  to  the  natural  affections 
of  the  heart — you  are  lost  in  sorrow  and  dismay 
before  the  melancholy  abuses  of  the  institution 
which  has  aimed  to  perpetuate  his  spirit  among 
men. 

Were  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  alone,  you  ask, 
guilty  of  giving  stones  for  fish  ? 

Turning  the  pages  of  ecclesiastical  history — of 
that  church  which  especially  has  hitherto  represent- 
ed  Christianity — or  of  the  various  sects  whose  dif- 
ferences so  fiercely  clash — does  it  seem  to  you  that 
you  contemplate  the  career  of  an  institution  with 
which  Jesus  promised  to  be,  until  the  end  of  the 
world  ? 

— Or  glancing  from  books  to  life,  and  regarding 
the  aspect  of  any  community  professing  Christiani- 
ty— as  Paris,  London,  or  New  York — would  you 
notice  eager  selfishness  as  its  characteristic,  or  for- 
bearance, forgiveness,  and  self-denial  ? 

If  now,  Jesus  were  sitting  where  he  once  sat,  upon 

the  Mount  of  Olives,  which  we  can  yonder  plainly 

discern  in  the  full  moonlight,  and  perceived    the 

worship  which  we  shall  see  this  Good  Friday  even- 
9* 


202  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

ing — scarcely  less  idolatrous  than  that  of  wild  Afri- 
cans to  a  Fetish — should  we  not  hear  his  voice  wail- 
ing again  over  the  city — 

"Oh  Jerusalem!  Jerusalem!  thou  that    stonest 
the  Prophets." 


XI. 

IDOLATRY. 

*♦  Thy  silver  is  become  dross,  thy  wine  is  mixed  with  water.* 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Duck  declined  to  go  to  the  church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  this  Good  Friday  evening, 
to  see  the  "  Romish  mummeries.'"  He  had  been 
attending  evening  prayer  at  the  English  chapel 
upon  Mount  Zion,  and  had  been  kneeling  and  pray- 
ing, "  From  pride,  envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharita- 
bleness,  Good  Lord  deliver  us!"  Between  the 
courses  at  dinner,  he  blandly  exposed  the  *'  absurd 
Romish  traditions  of  the  sacred  spots  in  and  around 
Jerusalem." 

Among  other  doubts,  he  had  disputed  the  authen 
ticity  of  the  tomb  at  Bethany,  called  the  tomb  of 
Lazarus.  *'  I  have  been  to-day  to  Bethany,'  said 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck,  "  and  I  saw  there  the  cave 
which  the  Romanists  called  the  tomb  of  Lazarus. 
It  is  an  excavation  in  the  rock,  and  we  descended 
several  steps  before  we  reached  the  spot  where  Laza- 
rus is  said  to  have  lain.     But,  my  dear  sir,  how 


204  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYKIA. 

very  absurd  to  suppose  that  this  could  have  beeu 
the  tomb  mentioned  in  holy  Scripture;  for  our 
Saviour  is  distinctly  stated  to  have  said — '  Lazarus, 
come  forth.''  Now  would  he  have  used  that  word  if 
he  had  meant  come  up  ?" 

This  reasoning  sufficed  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck's 
mind  to  destroy  the  identity  of  the  traditional  reli- 
gious places.  Decidedly  he  could  not  go  to  see  the 
"  Romish  mummeries." 

But  as  we  passed  into  the  court  of  the  house, 
upon  our  way  thither,  we  heard  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck 
reading  aloud  to  his  family.  And  these  were  the 
words  he  read. 

"  The  Pharisee  stood  and  prayed  thus  with  him- 
self. God  I  thank  thee  that  I  am  not  as  other  men 
are,  extortioners,  unjust,  adulterous,  or  even  as  this 
Publican  : 

"  And  the  Publican,  standing  afar  oiF,  would  not 
lift  up  so  much  as  his  eyes  unto  heaven,  but  smote 
upon  his  breast,  saying — God  be  merciful  to  me  a 
sinner !" — 

The  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  possessed 
by  the  Latins,  Greeks,  Armenians,  Copts,  and  Abys- 
sinians.  The  Greeks  are  the  richest,  and  are  undei 
the  immediate  protection  of  Russia,  and  they  mo- 
nopolize all  the  best  places  in  the  church,  except 
the  sepulchre  itself     The  exterior  of  the  building 


I D  O L  A T R  YS>..©WJF5)aM»^:>'«<56 

is  Byzantine.  The  interior  has  no  architectural 
pretension  or  beauty.  The  whole  middle  space  is 
inclosed,  fornning  a  church  within  a  church,  and  the 
inclosure  is  the  Greek  chapel.  In  front  of  this  is 
the  small  temple  built  around  the  sepulchre  itself, 
and  upon  the  sides  of  the  Greek  chapel  are  broad 
passages  in  which  are  shown  several  spots  of  tradi- 
tional interest — as  that  where  the  post  of  flagella- 
tion stood  —  which  post  you  may  see,  and  that 
where  the  clothing  was  divided.  Finally,  you 
ascend  a  steep  staircase  and  reach  a  small  upper 
chapel,  which  is  Calvary,  and  a  circular  spot  under 
the  altar  is  the  exact  site  of  the  cross. 

The  interior  of  the  church  is  bare  and  desolate. 
The  scant  and  dirty  hangings  and  trappings,  the 
miserable  pictures,  the  soiled  artificial  flowers,  the 
entire  dearth  of  grace  and  delicacy,  are  very  mourn- 
ful. There  is  not  a  solemn  spot  in  the  building, 
but  the  tomb  itself.  A  motley  crowd  is  constantly 
swarming  through  the  passages,  and  there  is  the 
perpetual  scuffling  of  many  feet  and  the  hum  of 
hushed  voices.  The  finest  figures  are  the  Bedoueen 
from  the  desert,  who  stand  in  postures  of  natural 
grace  and  dignity,  and  who,  with  the  flowing  robes, 
and  brilliant  Mecca  handkerchiefs  wreathed  around 
their  heads,  make  the  only  picturesque  and  pleas- 
ing groups. 


206  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

The  Greek  pilgrims  are  the  most  numerous,  and 
entirely  surpass  the  Latin  in  the  fervor  of  their  de- 
votions. I  have  never  seen  anything  so  abject  as 
their  conduct  before  the  altar  in  the  Calvary  chapel. 
You  can  scarcely  recognize  them  as  men,  so  sunken 
do  they  look  in  degraded  ignorance.  Their  genu- 
flexions are  remarkable  for  their  magical  suppleness. 
They  stand,  rapidly  repeating  prayers  before  the 
altar,  and  then  fall  to  their  knees  and  upon  their 
faces,  touching  their  foreheads,  and  kissing  the 
floor.  Then  up  again,  and  dov^rn,  with  incredible 
celerity.  This  continues  sometimes  for  a  half-hour 
and  they  then  stroll  away  through  the  church,  buy- 
ing crosses,  beads,  and  mother-of-pearl  shells  made 
at  Bethlehem. 

Directly  under  the  dome  of  the  church,  is  the 
sepulchre  itself.  It  is  inclosed  in  a  small  temple, 
divided  into  two  parts,  of  which  the  first  is  an  ante- 
room, and  the  other  a  small  cabinet,  in  which  is  the 
marble  tomb.  The  anteroom  is  hung  with  lamps, 
and  a  priest  stands  at  the  door,  shufiling  the  crowds 
of  worshippers  to  and  fro,  and  taking  snuff  in  the 
intervals.  But  he  has  great  respect  for  persons  ; 
for  when  we  appeared,  although  he  said  that  we 
were  heretics,  he  hustled  an  unwashed  company 
from  the  door,  and  greeting  us  as  English,  smil- 
ingly ushered  us  in. 


IDOLATRY.  207 

The  air  of  the  outer  room  was  warm  and  odor- 
ous with  incense.  The  faithful  were  kneeling  on 
the  floor,  weeping,  kissing  the  pavement,  and  mut- 
tering prayers.  From  the  interior  room  the  pil- 
grims were  coming  out  backward  and  with  bent 
heads.  They  paid  no  attention  to  our  Frank  cos- 
tume, they  were  wrapt  in  emotion. 

We  entered  the  interior  cabinet,  half  of  which  is 
occupied  by  the  tomb.  It  is  covered  with  a  marble 
slab,  smooth  with  the  myriad  kisses  of  generations ; 
over  it  is  a  narrow  marble  shelf,  along  which  are 
arranged  artificial  flowers.  It  is  hung  with  golden 
lamps,  a  priest  stands  silent  in  the  corner  forever, 
and  the  warm  air  is  faint  with  perpetual  incense. 

Before  the  tomb  was  a  figure  which  is  among  the 
saddest  in  my  memory.  It  was  an  old  man,  a  Bul- 
garian, deformed,  and  covered  with  scanty  rags. 
His  emotion  had  passed  into  idolatrous  frenzy. 
Throwing  himself  back  upon  his  knees,  he  con- 
templated the  tomb  with  streaming  eyes  —  then 
stretched  his  arms  over  it,  and  laid  his  face  against 
the  marble  with  idiotic  delight.  Seized  by  a  deli- 
rium of  devotion,  he  poured  out  a  series  of  adjura- 
tions with  inconceivable  rapidity.  He  grasped 
frantically  at  the  tomb — he  touched  his  forehead 
to  it — his  words  became  a  bubbling  at  the  mouth — 
his  head  fell  on  one  side,  and  he  sank  at  full  length, 


208  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

motionless,  upon  the  floor.  The  priest  presently 
touched  him.  He  stared  wildly  for  a  moment,  then 
rising  to  his  knees  and  clutching  at  the  tomb,  he 
shufiled  out  backward,  still  kneeling,  still  stretching 
out  his  hands,  covering  the  threshold  with  passion- 
ate kisses  and  drenching  it  with  tears. 

We  withdrew  from  the  sepulchre  humiliated  by 
that  spectacle.  It  was  not  the  ecstacy  of  piety — 
it  was  the  frenzy  of  superstition.  The  spirit  which 
had  rent  and  torn  the  poor  Bulgarian  was  the  same 
that  plunges  crowds  beneath  the  car  of  Juggernaut, 
and  beats  drums  while  children  burn  in  the  arms  of 
Moloch. 

We  turn  away.  The  night  advances,  and  the 
church  rapidly  fills.  The  brain  is  dizzy  with  the 
incessant  genuflexions,  crossings,  and  kissings,  on 
every  hand.  Wearied  and  mortified,  you  long  for 
one  sight,  one  sound,  that  might  suggest  to  you 
the  grave  serenity  of  Jesus  —  when  suddenly  the 
door  communicating  with  the  convent  opens,  and 
the  procession  enters. 

The  superior  of  the  convent,  mitred,  richly 
draped,  and  bearing  a  candle,  is  followed  by  all 
the  monks.  The  pious  pilgrims  crushing  toward 
the  priests,  seize  lighted  tapers  and  swell  the  train. 
It  winds,  a  motley  and  strange  multitude,  through 
the  dim  passage  by  the  Greek  chapel.     The  scuf- 


IDOLATRY.  209 

fling  of  hurrying  feet  ceases  as  they  gain  the  pro- 
cession. The  monotonous  murmur  of  low  voices 
dies  away.  The  low  responses  of  the  friars  end, 
and  a  sublime  chant  peals  through  the  silence. 

The  vast  building  is  overflowed  with  music. 
The  solemn  chords  swell  along  the  church,  their 
majesty  and  sincerity  protesting  against  the  tawdry 
idolatr}^  of  the  place.  Long  unused  to  music,  which 
is  rarely  heard  in  the  East,  the  grandeur  of  this  old 
Italian  chant,  which  first  I  heard  in  St.  Peter's,  is 
doubly  grand.  Proudly  it  asserts  the  greatness  of 
God,  and  the  dignity  of  man.  Its  superb  harmonies 
scorn  the  superstition  they  are  evoked  to  aid — for 
what  thoughtful  man  can  call  the  spectacle  which 
we  now  behold,  worship.  This  music  of  Allegri 
chanted  by  these  monks,  is  as  a  spirit  of  heaven  sub- 
ject to  gnomes — as  Ariel  to  Caliban.  It  comes  at 
their  bidding,  yet  in  coming  it  does  not  serve  them, 
but  the  ends  of  its  own  beauty  and  nature.  Swept 
up,  upon  its  soaring  strains,  we  float  away  into  the 
clearest  vision,  of  that  life  of  love  and  duty,  and 
renew  to  it  there,  the  oalh  of  loyalty,  which  was 
well  nigh  lost  in  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

It  melts — it  fails — it  dies  into  softer  and  more  ex- 
quisite modulations.  It  wails  around  Calvary  and 
the  Sepulchre  as  once  the  winds  of  heaven  may 
have  wailed  there — softly,    more  softly — shaming 


810  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

its  use  by  its  sweetness,  and  wooing  to  the  worship 
in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

The  procession  stopped  at  each  of  the  stations, 
and  the  music,  pausing,  died  in  long,  sweet  rever- 
berations through  the  dark  church.  At  each  station 
a  sermon  was  preached,  and  at  each  in  a  different 
language,  that  every  pilgrim  in  the  crowd  might 
have  a  chance  of  understanding.  Then  the  chorus 
swelled  again,  and  with  censers  swinging  incense, 
the  crowd  passed  to  the  next  station,  making  alto- 
gether seven  pauses. 

When  the  procession  went  up  to  the  Calvary 
chapel  we  awaited  its  return,  and  strolled  about 
the  church. — 

A  lofty  gallery  surrounds  that  part  of  the  church 
in  which  the  Sepulchre  stands.  Part  of  this  gallery 
is  devoted  to  the  Armenian  women,  and  pausing 
under  it  I  searched  its  brilliant  groups  for  one  face, 
as  boys  the  matted  blossoms  of  summer  fields,  for 
their  choicest  flower. 

I  saw  it.  Through  the  azure  clouds  of  incense 
looked  Khadra's  dreamy  eyes,  roving  over  the 
tumultuous  wilderness  of  men  below,  as  they  had 
glanced  over  the  desert.  And  like  that  fairest  flower 
of  summer  fields  was  she  arrayed.  Not  cardinal 
flowers  In  the  dusk  shadows  of  water-courses,  gleam 
with  more  splendor  than  she  through  my  memory 


IDOLATRY.  211 

now.  Eastern  women  dare,  what  the  western  do 
not  dream.  Even  the  pictured  women  of  Titian, 
and  Paul,  and  Giorgione,  are  pale  before  the  com- 
plexions and  costumes  of  the  East 

Khadra's  eyes,  attracted,  perhaps,  by  the  Frank 
dress,  rested  at  length  upon  my  figure.  I  looked 
up  at  her,  and  her  glance  overflowed  me  with  the 
warm  solitude  of  the  desert.  There  w^as  no  church, 
no  throng,  no  preaching — but  a  boundless  silence, 
and  Khadra  looking  at  me.  A  smile  broke  along 
her  mouth.  It  was  the  dawn  stealing  over  the 
moonlight  of  her  glances.  She  was  playing  with  a 
flower,  and  I  approached  so  as  to  stand  directly  un- 
der the  gallery. 

At  that  moment  the  sublime  chorus  pealed  again 
from  the  chapel,  and  the  procession  began  to  de- 
scend. Then,  whether  startled  by  the  sudden  burst, 
or  willing  to  acknowledge,  in  the  sanctity  of  the 
church,  and  from  her  inviolable  height,  an  ac- 
quaintance which  could  be  no  more  than  a  dream, 
Khadra  dropped  the  flower,  and  it  fell  into  my 
hands. 

Meanwhile,  a  Turkish  guard  had  entered  to  keep 
order  during  the  final  ceremonies.  They  pushed  the 
pilgrims  backward  with  their  guns,  treating  them 
with  utter  contempt.  It  was  a  commentary  upon 
the  ceremonies  that  the   fights  of  the  Latin  and 


212  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

Greek  Christians  in  the  church  were,  until  recently^ 
so  sanguinary  that  Muslim  were  obliged  to  enter 
the  tomb  of  Christ  to  preserve  the  peace  among 
his  followers. 

They  were  now  holding  a  space  clear  about  a 
marble  slab,  upon  which  the  body  of  Jesus  is  said 
to  have  been  washed,  before  his  burial.  Upon  this, 
when  room  was  made,  a  friar  laid  a  lace-edged 
shroud  and  a  small  velvet  pillow.  The  crowd 
pressed  forward,  but  the  Turks  thrust  it  violently 
back;  and  the  colonel,  seeing  that  we  were  Howadji 
of  a  certain  importance,  beckoned  us  to  the  inner 
circle,  and  then,  quietly  turning  his  back  upon  the 
slab,  continued,  in  that  position,  to  smoke  his  chi- 
bouque during  the  remaining  ceremonies. 

As  the  procession  descended  the  steps  from  Cal- 
vary, I  saw  Wind  and  Shower  holding  candles,  and 
weeping  profusely.  The  crowd  was  very  dense 
upon  the  stairs.  There  were  several  consular  dig- 
nitaries, and  some  ladies,  with  the  rest.  All  leaned 
toward  the  slab,  in  earnest  and  wondering  attention. 
The  tapers  flared  wildly  over  the  wild  faces  thrust 
forward  with  eager  curiosity.  Only  the  Muslim 
and  the  monks  who  immediately  surrounded  the 
slab,  were  unconcerned.  The  true  believers  of  one 
faith  looked  contemptuously  upon  those  of  the 
other,  and  smoked.     Those  of  the  other  preserved  a 


IDOLATRY.  215 

stolid  indifference,  or  scolded  among  themselves, 
and  took  snuff. 

The  scene,  which  was  hitherto  only  painful,  be- 
came shocking  when  four  monks  brought  forward  a 
waxen  image,  four  feet  long — a  ghastly  idol,  in  an 
agonized  posture,  meant  to  represent  Jesus  after  the 
crucifixion,  and  really  resembling  a  cast  of  Casper 
Hauser  just  famishing — and  laid  it,  lean,  shrunken, 
and  puny,  upon  the  lace-edged  shroud  or  sheet  on 
the  slab. 

The  mitred  superior  then  knelt  and  anointed  it 
with  oil,  while  Wind  and  Shower  leaned  more  ear- 
nestly forward  over  the  railing  of  the  stairs,  still 
holding  the  candles,  still  weeping ;  while,  in 
the  deep  distances  of  the  church,  the  wailing 
music  moaned,  as  if  angels  were  grieving.  The 
echoes  died  away,  and  a  friar  preached  an 
Italian  sermon.  It  was  artificial  and  cold.  The 
Turkish  colonel  smoked ;  the  brethren  yawned  and 
snuffed ;  a  French  lady  quietly  surveyed  the  figure 
through  her  lorgnette,  precisely  as  I  had  seen  her 
survey  the  hippopotamus  at  Cairo,  and  with  the 
same  kind  of  interest. 

That  French  lady  with  the  lorgnette,  and  the 
English  gentleman  who  had  told  me  at  dinner  that 
there  was  too  much  common-sense  abroad  now-a- 
days   for  martyrdom,  are   remembered    upon   that 


214  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Good  Friday  in  Jerusalem,  not  less  than  the  poor 
Bulgarian  in  the  tomb. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  these  things  ended. 
With  mingled  feelings  of  wonder,  humiliation,  in- 
dignation, and  sorrow,  we  turned  from  the  church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  ;  and  I  know  no  place  where 
you  encounter  such  faint  traces  of  the  spirit  of 
Christianity. 

The  splendor  of  St.  Peter's  appeals  to  you  irre- 
spective of  what  it  represents.  Pictures  and  archi- 
tectural grandeurs,  and  the  romantic  pomp  of  the 
processions,  have  an  independent  value.  But  it  is 
not  so  with  the  gilt  gewgaws  of  a  poor  chapel,  al- 
though the  genuine  sentiment  in  the  worshipper 
might  make  them  endurable  to  him.  And  here  in 
Jerusalem,  in  the  very  presence  of  the  Sepulchre, 
and  the  profound  reality  of  Christ's  life,  ignorant 
and  repulsive  monks,  quarrelling  and  dozing,  and 
shambling  in  dirty  gowns  about  a  bare  and  desolate 
building,  which  looks  like  a  dilapidated  old  curiosity 
shop,  carrying  disgusting  idols  through  a  crowd  ab- 
jectly superstitious — these  things  do  not  satisfy  any 
known  condition  of  delight. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  the  Muslim  boys  spit  at 
these  men,  and  hate  Christians  ;  for  their  idea  of 
Christianity  is  derived  from  the  indecent  struggles 
and  shabby  splendors  of  this  place,  and  the  swarm 


IDOLATRY.  215 

of  miserable  devotees  from  the  Danubian  provinces, 
who  yearly  inundate  the  city.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  those  children  escape,  like  a  cluster  of  timid 
birds,  from  the  cold  gloom  of  the  church  of  the 
Sepulchre,  into  the  broad,  green,  sunny  spaces  of 
the  mosque  of  Omar. 

Ever  since  the  Crusaders  entered  the  city,  and 
baptized  the  holy  places  in  Muslim  blood,  through 
all  their  precarious  kingdom  of  impotence  and  de- 
ceit, until  Saladin  cleansed  the  city  of  the  lees  of 
Europe,  which  had  been  drained  into  it — for  in 
every  stream  the  sands  of  gold  are  few  to  the  grains 
of  dross — and  down  to  the  present  annual  over- 
flow of  Jerusalem  with  the  refuse  of  south-eastern 
Europe,  and  European  Asia,  the  mass  of  Christians 
in  Jerusalem  have  been  the  indelible  stain  upon  the 
name  they  assume. 

I  speak  merely  of  the  fact,  and  strongly  ;  because 
every  man  must  feel  strongly  in  Jerusalem.  I  do 
not  quarrel  with  the  poor  old  Bulgarian  that  he  was 
not  a  man.  I  make  no  other  complaint  than  that 
of  disgust.  If  Jerusalem  were  nearer  Europe  or 
America,  it  would  be  different,  at  least  it  would  be 
more  decent,  from  the  higher  character  of  the  popu- 
lation. But  going  up  to  Jerusalem  as  to  the  holiest 
city  of  the  purest  faith,  you  are  disappointed  by 
what  you  see  of  that  faith  there^  as   you  would 


216  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYEIA. 

be  upon  approaching  a  banquet  of  wit  and 
beauty,  to  find  it  a  festival  of  idiots  and  the 
insane. 

Tlie  only  visible  Protestant  effort  in  Jerusalem  is 
the  English  chapel  upon  Mount  Zion.  It  is  not 
liable  to  the  same  objections  as  the  church  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre.  It  is  small,  new,  and  of  unexcep 
tionable  ecclesiastical  architecture,  and  its  main  im- 
pression is  that  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck's  cravat 
namely  :  snowy  decorum.  It  is  maintained  by  the 
joint  efforts  of  England  and  Prussia,  and  its  minis- 
trations are  directed  to  the  conversion  of  the  Jews. 
The  tribes  of  Israel  are  gathered  into  the  fold  at 
the  rate  of  six,  and  in  favorable  years,  eight,  con- 
verts per  annum. 

I  went  into  the  chapel  one  afternoon,  but  what 
relation  the  frigid  system  propounded  by  a  very 
clean  phantom  in  the  pulpit,  to  a  very  clean  con- 
gregation of  phantoms  in  the  pews,  enjoyed  to  the 
simple  and  sublime  humanity  of  the  Christian  teach- 
ings, was  not  stated. 

We  returned  from  the  church  of  the  Sepulchre, 
through  the  silent  streets,  and  sat  upon  the  house- 
top until  the  stars  were  fading.  The  air  was  balmy 
as  south  winds  in  May.  Perfect  silence  brooded 
over  the  innumerable  little  domes  of  the  houses. 
And,  when  the  call  to  prayer  trembled  from  the 


IDOLATEY.  217 

minaret  of  Omar,  our  muezzin  of  the  daybreak  was 
Isaiah,  and  these  his  wailing  words  : 

*'  Thy  silver  is  become  dross ;  thy  wine  mixed 
with  water." 
10 


XII. 

THE    DEAD    SEA. 

Golden  Sleeve  appeared  one  morning,  arrayed 
in  the  arsenal,  and,  muttering  something  about  "  had 
pcoj)le,^^  announced  that  the  horses  v^ore  saddled  for 
the  excursion  to  Jordan  and  the  Dead  Sea. 

You  are  still  likely  to  fall  among  thieves,  going 
down  to  Jericho,  and  the  only  safety  is  in  being  rob- 
bed before  you  start,  by  purchasing  permission  of 
the  Arabs.  The  tribes  that  haunt  the  hill  country 
near  Jerusalem,  are  not  entirely  friendly  toward 
each  other ;  but,  by  retaining  a  shekh  of  one  of  the 
most  powerful  among  them,  you  insure  tolerable 
security  for  the  excursion. 

The  shekh  Artoosh,  who  awaited  us  at  the  foot 
of  the  Mount  of  Olives — for  a  Bedoueen  fears  to  en- 
ter the  city,  whose  very  walls  his  stern  wilderness 
chafes — was  the  ideal  Bedoueen.  He  had  the  arched 
brow,  the  large,  rich,  sad  and  tender  eyes,  which 
are  peculiar  to  the  Orient,  and  which  painters  aim 
to  give  to  pictures  of  Christ.  It  was  the  most 
beautiful  and  luminous  eye  I  have  ever  seen.  The 
other  features  were  delicate,  but  full  of  force,  and 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  219 

the  olive  transparency  of  his  complexion  set  his 
planet-like  eyes,  as  evening  light  the  stars.  There 
was  that  extreme  elegance  in  his  face,  and  in  the 
supple  grace  of  his  movement  which  imagination 
attributes  to  noblemen,  and  which  is  of  the  same 
quality  as  the  refinement  of  a  high-bred  Arabian 
horse. 

He  wore,  over  a  white  robe,  a  long  mantle  of 
black  goat's  hair  cloth,  and  his  head  was  covered 
with  the  true  Bedoueen  head-dress — a  Mecca 
handkerchief,  or  small  shawl,  of  cloth  of  gold,  with 
red  borders  and  a  long  rich  fringe.  This  is  folded 
once,  and  laid  smoothly  upon  the  head.  One  end 
falls  behind,  between  the  shoulders,  showering  the 
fringe  about  the  back ;  and  the  other  is  carried  for- 
ward, over  the  right  shoulder,  and  caught  up  upon 
the  left  cheek,  so  half  shielding  the  face,  like  the 
open  vizor  of  a  helmet.  A  double  twist  of  goat's 
hair  cord,  binding  the  shawl  smoothly,  goes  around 
the  head,  so  that  the  top  of  it  is  covered  only  with 
the  gold. 

Picture  under  this,  that  mystic  complexion  of 
the  desert,  steep  it  all  in  Syrian  light,  and  you 
have  what  only  the  eastern  sun  can  show.  Mark, 
too,  the  shekh's  white  mare — valued,  even  there, 
at  purses  equal  to  a  thousand  dollars,  and  on  whom 
he  moves  as  flexibly  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water. 


220  THE    HOWAD.TI    IN    SYRIA. 

We  skirted  the  Mount  of  Olives,  on  the  way  tc 
Bethany.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  were  in  the 
hill-wilderness — the  mountains  that  separate  the 
valley  of  the  Jordan  from  the  plain  of  the  sea.  Our 
path  was  a  zigzag  way  upon  the  slope.  There  are 
no  houses  or  gardens,  and  Bethany,  lying  blighted 
in  a  nook  of  the  hills,  is  only  beautiful  because  she 
lived  there,  who  loved  much.  A  few  olive-trees 
and  blossoming  vines  linger,  like  fading  fancies  of 
greenness  and  bloom,  along  the  way.  A  few  Arabs 
pass,  with  guns  and  rusty  swords.  You  feel  that 
you  are  in  a  wild  country,  where  the  individual 
makes  his  own  laws. 

Artoosh,  like  our  shekh  of  the  desert,  was  accom- 
panied by  an  older  dignitary,  a  kind  of  grand 
vizier,  perhaps,  or  genius  of  the  army.  In  narrow 
passes  of  the  road,  throats  and  g6rges  of  the  hills, 
overhung  by  steep  cliffs,  the  vizier  rode  forward 
and  surveyed  the  position,  gun  in  hand,  and  finger 
on  the  trigger.  Several  times  he  rode  back  to  Ar- 
toosh, and,  after  a  low  council,  they  gallopped  off 
together,  and  reappeared  upon  the  hills  beyond 
riding  around  corners  of  the  rock,  and  into  bushy 
places,  where  foes  might  lurk.  But  it  was  quite 
their  aiFair.  We  were  only  passengers,  and  watched 
their  beautiful  riding  with  unmingled  delight  in  its 
grace,  and  went  musing  and  singing  along,  in  the 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  221 

monotonous  noonlight,  as  in  the  safe  solitude  of  a 
city. 

Sunset  showed'  us,  from  the  brow  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  plain  of  the  Jordan.  Far  away,  upon  the 
other  side,  it  was  walled  by  the  misty  range  of  the 
Moab.  Utter  silence  brooded  over  the  valley — and 
a  silence  as  of  death.  No  feeling  of  life  saluted  our 
gaze.  From  the  Alps,  you  look  southw^ard  into  the 
humming  luxuriance  of  Italy,  and  northward  into 
the  busy  toil  of  Switzerland,  and  the  Apennines  are 
laved  with  teeming  life.  But  of  all  valleys  that  I 
had  ever  beheld  from  mountain-tops,  this  was  the 
saddest.  Not  even  the  hope  of  regeneration  into 
activity  dawned  in  the  mind.  I  was  looking  down 
into  the  valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

Upon  the  brow  of  the  mountain  where  we  stood, 
tradition  indicates  the  spot  of  the  Temptation.  The 
Rev.  Dr.  Duck  was  not  at  hand  to  destroy  the 
identity,  and  I  was  willing  to  believe.  We  de- 
scended rapidly  into  the  plain,  and  the  camp  was 
pitched  among  the  green  shrubs  and  trees  that 
overhung  a  stream.  It  was  Elisha's  brook  that  ran 
sweet  and  clear,  just  behind  our  tent. 

It  was  a  wild  night.  The  heat  was  deadly,  and 
the  massive  mountains  rose  grimly  before  us,  as  if 
all  fair  airs  were  forever  walled  away.  The  sky 
was  piled  with  jagged  clouds.     Occasional  showers 


222  THE    IIOWADJI    IN     SYRIA 

pattered  upon  the  tents,  and  keen  lightning  angrily 
flashed,  while  low,  dull  thunder  was  hushed  and 
flattened  in  the  thick  air.  None  of  us  slept.  It 
was  a  weird  and  awful  night. 

A  lurid  dawn  reddened  over  the  valley.  The 
leaden  clouds  caught  the  gleam  upon  their  reef-like 
edges,  but  folded  over  again,  into  deeper  blackness. 
They  clung,  affrighted,  to  the  mountains,  which 
were  only  a  mysterious  darkness  in  the  dawn.  A 
mocking  rainbow  spanned  the  blind  abysses,  and 
the  east  was  but  a  vast  vapor,  suff*used  with  crimson 
luminousness.  The  day  was  fateful  and  strange, 
and  glared  at  us,  vengeful-eyed,  like  a  maniac.  We 
were  in  a  valley,  a  thousand  feet  below  the  Medi- 
terranean. The  Dead  Sea  had  infected  it  with 
death.  This  was  the  spirit  and  gloom  of  the  sea, 
without  its  substance.  Thus  it  would  compel 
the  very  landscape  and  atmosphere  to  its  appall- 
ing desolation,  before  it  overflowed  it  with  its 
water. 

Through  the  vague  apprehension  of  that  super- 
natural morning,  I  heard  the  gurgling  song  of  the 
little  brook  of  Elisha,  flowing  clear  and  smooth  out 
of  the  dark  mountain  region,  and  threading  that 
enchanted  siience  with  pleasant  sound.  I  ran  to  it, 
and  leaped  in,  and  drank  of  the  water.  But  the  red- 
eyed  morning  scorned  me  as  I  lay  in  that  sweet 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  223 

embrace,  and  moaning  muttered  thunders  rehearsed 
the  dreary  day. 

The  tents  were  struck.  Artoosh,  shekh  of 
shekhs,  leaped  into  his  saddle,  and  the  beautiful 
mare  paced  slowly  away  from  the  camp,  and  led 
us  toward  Jericho.  The  little  stream  called  after 
me,  rilling  cool  music  through  the  leaves — softer 
ever,  and  farther,  until  I  heard  it  no  more. 

The  path  wound  among  the  bushes  upon  the 
plain.  A  few  large  rain -drops  fell  with  heavy  dis- 
tinctness upon  the  leaves.  No  birds  sang,  as  they 
sing  all  day  in  dead,  sunny  Jerusalem.  There  were 
no  houses,  no  flocks,  no  men  or  women.  We  came 
to  a  grain  tract,  that  waved  luxuriantly  to  the 
horses'  bellies,  and  out  of  the  grain,  upon  a  little 
elevation,  arose  a  solitary  ruined  tower. 

It  was  the  site  of  Jericho — the  City  of  Palms,  as 
Moses  called  it — and,  although  desolate  now,  palms 
were  seen  in  the  year  700  by  Bishop  Arculf,  and  in 
1102  by  Sewulf,  and  the  Crusaders  found  under 
them  singular  flowers,  which  they  called  Jericho 
roses. 

"We  saw  no  roses  nor  palms.  We  saw  only  a 
cluster  of  sad  stone  hovels,  and  wan-eyed  men  stared 
at  us  like  spectres  from  the  doors,  and  the  scene 
was  lonely  and  forlorn.  Yet  near  one  hovel  a 
group  of  young  fig- trees  was  blossoming,  as  fairly 


224  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

as  ever  the  figs  and  roses  could  have  blossomed  in 
the  gardens  of  Jericho,  before  the  seven  rams  v^ere 
yeaned,  and  Joshua  was  a  beardless  boy,  in  Israel's 
camp  by  the  Red  Sea. 

The  elevation  upon  which  stands  the  tower  com- 
mands the  plain,  and  a  more  memorable  or  remark- 
able landscape  seen  under  such  a  sky  is  nowhere 
beheld. 

The  vast  reach  of  the  plain  lay  silent  and  sha- 
dowed, as  in  early  twilight,  from  the  gleaming  level 
of  the  Dead  Sea  on  the  south  to  the  mountains  that 
closed  the  valley  upon  the  north.  Westward  lay 
the  hills  of  Judea,  and  to  the  east  the  Moab  moun- 
tains. Lower  lines  of  nearer  eastern  hills  rolled 
and  curved  before  us.  Over  all  hung  the  lurid  sky. 
Vague  thunder  still  shook  the  awed  hush  of  morn- 
ing, and  far  over  the  Dead  Sea,  into  the  dense 
blackness  that  absorbed  at  the  south  its  burnised 
water,  fiery  flashes  darted.  Glimpses  of  pallid  blue 
sky  struggled  overhead  in  the  crimson  vortex  of  va- 
por, and  died  into  the  clouds.  Upon  the  tops  of  all 
the  bushy  trees  near  us  sat  solemn-eyed  eagles  and 
vultures,  silent  with  fixed  stare,  like  birds  of  prey 
dismally  expectant. 

We  rode  quietly  forward,  lost  in  strange  reveries. 
The  plain,  as  we  advanced,  was  level  but  barren. 
Tufted  shrubs  of  impotent  growth,  as  if  shrinking 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  225 

from  the  spell  that  blights  the  region,  desolated  it 
the  more.  Austere  and  scriptural  figures  thronged 
the  morning.  Chiefest  Joshua,  who  utterly  de- 
stroyed the  City  of  Palms,  sparing — of  all  its  in- 
habitants, and  when  herds  and  cattle  were  slain — 
only  the  harlot  Rahab. 

Yet  along  the  enchanted  plain  glided  other  and 
stately  figures.  Not  only  was  the  reverent  eye 
searching  the  monotonous  line  of  the  Moab  hills  for 
probable  Pisgh,  but  the  human  heart  remembered 
that  Marc  Antony  gave  all  this  country  to  Cleo- 
patra. Sweet  and  warm  was  that  remembrance, 
last  and  farthest  eastern  trace  of  the  "  most  sweet 
queen,"  and  long  lingering  that  day. 

But  suddenly,  like  those  who  descry  life  in  the 
midst  of  death,  we  saw  the  green  trees  that  fringe 
the  Jordan,  and  the  whole  party  bounded  at  full 
speed  over  the  plain. 

Beautiful,  bowery  Jordan !  Its  swift,  turbid  stream 
eddied  and  fled  through  the  valley,  defying  its  death 
with  eager  motion,  and  with  the  low  gurgling  song 
of  living  water.  It  is  very  narrow — not  more  at  that 
season  than  a  hundred  feet  wide,  and  it  has  chan- 
nelled a  deep  bed  in  the  soft  earth,  so  that  you  do 
not  see  it  until  you  stand  on  the  very  verge  of  the 
bank.  Balsam  poplars,  willows,  and  oleanders  lean 
over  it,  shrinking  from  the  inexorable  plain  behind, 


10^ 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA^ 


22Q  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

clustering  into  it  with  trembling  foliage  and  arching 
it  with  green,  as  if  tree  and  river  had  sworn  forlorn 
friendship  in  that  extremity  of  solitude. 

Beautiful,  bowery  Jordan !  Yet  you  are  sad  as 
you  stand  dipping  your  feet  in  its  water — sad  as  you 
watch  this  brave  son  of  Lebanon  rushing,  tumultu- 
ously  triumphant,  like  a  victor  in  the  race — rush- 
ing and  reeling  with  terror  and  delight,  and  in  a 
moment  to  be  hushed  and  choked  in  the  bosom  of 
the  neighboring  sea — your  eyes  rove  from  the  water 
to  the  trees  that  overhang  it,  with  almost  a  human 
sympathy,  and  those  trees  are  figures  as  lithe  and 
pensive  to  your  imagination  as  the  daughters  of 
Babylon  who  wept  hopelessly  by  other  waters. 

So  leave  it  singing  under  trees  in  your  memory 
forever.  And  when  in  after  days  you  sit,  on  quiet 
summer  Sundays,  in  the  church,  and  hear  the  story 
of  the  Baptism,  the  forms  around  you  will  melt  in 
the  warm  air — and  once  more  those  trees  will  over- 
lean,  once  more  those  waters  sing,  and  the  Jordan, 
a  vague  name  to  others,  shall  be  a  line  of  light  in 
your  memory. 

Artoosh  turned  to  the  south,  and  away  from  the 
river  which  bends  toward  the  Moab  mountains. 
We  rode  for  an  hour  over  the  soft,  floor-like, 
shrub-dotted  plain,  and  to  the  shore  of  the  Dead 
Sea. 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  227 

It  lay  like  molten  lead,  heavily  still  under  the 
clouds  :  a  stretch  of  black  water  gleaming  under 
muttering  thunder.  Its  shores  are  bare  mountain 
precipices.  No  tree  grows  upon  the  bank  ;  no  sail 
shines  upon  the  sea;  no  wave  or  ghostly  ripple  laps 
the  beach,  only  dead  drift-wood  is  strewn  along  the 
shore.  No  bird  flew  over,  even  the  wind  had  died 
away.  Moaning  thunder  only  was  the  evidence  of 
life  in  nature.  My  horse  stooped  to  the  clear 
water,  but  did  not  drink.  It  was  a  spot  accursed. 
Did  Cain  skulk  along  this  valley,  leaving  Abel  in 
the  field  ? 

Yet  it  is  not  the  desolation  of  pure  desert  which 
girds  the  Dead  Sea,  and  that  is  its  awful ness.  Here 
are  noble  landscape-forms,  and  upon  the  plain  fer- 
tility and  possible  cultivation.  It  is  not  the  spell 
of  death,  but  of  insanity.  The  aspect  is  not  so 
much  of  dead  features,  as  of  those  whence  soul  has 
departed. 

Here,  when  Moses  looked  down  from  those  moun- 
tains, basked  a  gracious  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey.  Proud  were  its  cities,  sweet  the  shadow  of 
the  pomegranate  and  the  palm.  The  pageant  of  an 
unknown  life  was  here,  but  it  disappeared  before 
history.  And  you,  to-day,  can  see  the  outline  of 
that  landscape,  but  ghostly  now  and  grim. 

We  tasted  the  water ;  it  is  inconceivably  bitter 


228  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

and  salt.  Sea-water  is  mild  in  the  comparison. 
None  of  us  bathed.  Not  alone  the  stickiness  and 
saltness,  but  a  feeling  of  horror  repelled  me.  Hap- 
ly the  sins  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  shaped  as 
incredible  monsters,  haunt  those  depths.  I  be- 
lieved the  quaint  old  legend — "And  if  a  man  cast 
iron  therein,  it  will  float  on  the  surface;  but  if  men 
cast  a  feather  therein,  it  will  sink  to  the  bottom." 

We  lay  for  an  hour  upon  the  shore,  chatting 
with  Artoosh,  whose  soft  eyes  sparkled  with  de- 
light at  our  efforts  to  comprehend  what  he  said — 
dreaming  dreams,  and  wondering  if  the  women  of 
Sodom  were  fair,  and  the  men  of  Gomorrah  brave, 
and  if  there  were  caustic  irony  upon  female  curi- 
osity in  that  earliest  romance,  the  story  of  Lot,  in 
which  it  is  so  hard  that  the  natural  yearning  of  a 
woman's  heart  toward  her  old  home  and  her  old 
gossips  should  meet  a  fate  so  stern — and  whether 
the  saltness  of  the  Dead  Sea  was  not  Lot's  wife  in 
solution  —  and  then  Volney's  sneer  mocked  my 
reverie,  that,  as  Lot's  wife  was  changed  into  salt, 
she  must  have  melted  in  the  next  winter's  rains. 

My  musing  eyes  suddenly  beheld  a  vast  congre- 
gation upon  the  distant  shore.  —  "The  unhappy 
people  flying  from  the  cities,"  I  carelessly  reflect- 
ed ;  for  I  think  if  the  cities  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 
themselves  had  slowly  risen  from  the  sea,  and  with 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  229 

sparkling  battlements  and  spires,  and  all  the  hum 
of  life,  had  drifted  over  the  water  into  the  black 
cloud  of  distance,  I  should  not  have  marvelled 
much  on  that  bewitched  morning. 

But  the  eyes  of  Artoosh  kindled  at  the  sight, 
and,  pointing  with  his  finger,  he  called  to  us 
eagerly,  "  Hadji,  Hadji,  (pilgrims,  pilgrims)." 

We  mounted  and  gal  lopped  around  the  beach 
toward  the  crowd.  It  was  a  vast  company  of 
Greek  pilgrims,  who  had  been  to  the  Jordan  to 
dip  in  the  sacred  water  the  shrouds  they  had 
bought  in  Jerusalem,  and  which  they  would  carry 
home  with  them,  and  preserve  for  their  burial. 
They  made  an  immense  cavalcade  or  caravan,  with 
which  we  concluded  to  return  to  Jerusalem.  Most 
of  the  pilgrims  were  upon  foot,  and  in  every 
variety  of  costume,  of  which  the  European  was 
the  most  graceless  and  undignified,  and  they  were 
all  carrying  away  a  bottle  of  the  precious  Jordan 
water. 

We  ascended  the  rugged  mountain-side,  directly 
from  the  Dead  Sea.  Through  the  vistas  of  yellow 
precipice  I  saw,  for  a  long  time,  the  line  of  black 
stillness  ;  but  the  spell  was  gradually  dissolved. 

We  rode  busily  about  among  the  motley  crowd 
of  our  new  companions,  undertaking  impossible 
conversations  with  every  masculine  face  that  inter- 


230  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

ested;  and  with  every  gentle  pilgrim  who  appeared 
propitious. 

At  intervals  upon  the  table-lands  the  Bedoueen 
dashed  off,  fleet  as  the  wind,  and  graceful  as  the 
grain  it  bends,  in  their  game  of  throwing  the 
jereed  or  lance,  and  so  regaled  us  with  Arabian 
sham  fights.  Then  we  saw  the  supple  and  wonder- 
ful horsemanship  of  the  Bedoueen.  Part  of  the 
animal  they  rode,  they  governed  his  movement  by 
their  own.  The  wild  grace  of  the  spectacle  was 
poetic  and  exhilarating.  It  was  the  sport  of  Cen- 
taurs. It  was  a  romance  of  Antar  and  of  Ez-za- 
hir. 

Thus  whiling  away  the  day  over  the  barren 
mountains  and  long  plains,  upon  which  little  lived 
but  a  few  flocks,  and  which  were  dotted  with  the 
black  tents  of  the  Arabs  —  we  fell  at  length  into 
the  road  near  Bethany. 

Another  cavalcade  met  us  here,  coming  out  from 
Jerusalem  to  welcome  home  the  pilgrims.  Among 
the  rest,  in  the  snuffy  neighborhood  which  they 
affected,  I  saw  Wind  and  Shower,  not  weeping 
profusely,  with  burning  candles,  but  smiling,  upon 
gay  horses,  in  sympathy  with  the  Bulgarian  style 
of  believers. 

But  when  I  saw  our  old  friend  Peach  Blossom, 
whom  I  had  left  in  a  tomb  at  Thebes,  riding  gal- 


THE    DEAD    SEA.  231 

iantly  forward  between  two  of  the  Maccaboy  fri- 
ars, and  smiling  with  exhilaration,  I  felt  that  his 
hope  "  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  East"  had  been, 
religiously  speaking,  fulfilled. 

We  all  filed  around  the  base  of  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  a  goodly  company  in  the  late  twilight,  and 
as  I  watched  the  multitude  swarming  by  the  points 
of  the  road,  more  easily  my  fancy  saw  the  deluge 
of  Crusaders  flowing  upon  Jerusalem. 

The  weird  gloom  of  the  morning  had  passed 
away.  The  round,  yellow  moon  hung  over  the 
ruined  convent  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  as  we 
paused  at  the  gate  of  the  garden  of  Gethsemane. 
There  Artoosh  took  leave  of  us.  The  dreary  and 
lonely  landscape,  which  lies  among  remembered 
landscapes,  as  the  Dead  Sea  among  waters,  was 
the  constant  scene  of  his  life.  I  did  not  wonder 
then  at  the  soft  sadness  of  his  eye,  and  at  his  in- 
frequent speech.  There  was  wild  and  inscruta- 
ble romance  in  his  whole  existence.  Our  hands 
grasped  in  farewell,  and  the  extremes  of  life 
touched.  In  me  the  farthest  west  thrilled  with 
admiration  and  sympathy  for  the  deepest  east.  In 
his  lambent  eye  flashed  the  light  of  sweet  surprise 
at  the  recognition. 

Artoosh  waited,  sitting  motionless  upon  his  beau- 
tiful white  mare,  until  we  had  passed  the  brook 


232  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYEIA. 

Kedron,  and  were  climbing  the  hill  toward  the 
gate  of  the  city.  Then  he  turned  slowly  and  alone 
toward  the  desert,  and  disappeared  in  the  melan- 
choly moonlight. 


XIII. 

ADDIO   KHADRA. 

Leisurlie  was  playing  upon  his  concertii  o  the 
exquisite  trio  from  Don  Giovanni,  and  in  the  deep 
enjoyment  of  the  best  music  in  an  unmusical  land, 
I  felt  the  wisdom  of  Lady  Georgiana  Wolff  in 
bringing  her  piano  over  the  desert  to  Jerusalem. 

Golden  Sleeve  entered  with  a  significant  smile,  and 
announced  the  venerable  Armenian. 

The  Howadji  instantly  assumed  the  gravity  be- 
coming great  Moguls,  and  the  old  gentleman  enter- 
ed. We  rose  and  conducted  him  to  the  sofa,  and 
he  naturally  fell  into  the  cross-leggedness  of  oriental 
sitting.  But  observing  that  our  feet  touched  the 
floor,  he  endeavored  secretly  to  untwine  his  own 
legs,  and  to  pay  us  the  delicate  compliment  of 
yielding  to  our  Frankish  prejudices,  in  sitting  as  we 
sat. 

The  commander  bustled  about,  grandiloquent 
with  importance  ;  for  he  was  to  interpret  the  con- 
versation. 


234  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

The  Pacha,  with  gravity  and  safety,  commented 
upon  the  weather. 

— "  It  was  a  boaatiful  day." 

"  By  the  grace  of  God  it  was,"  was  the  affable 
reply,  which  made  it  a  very  pretty  conversation  as 
it  stood. 

Leisurlie  then  suggested,  in  rather  a  general  man- 
ner— 

*'  Tdib^  tdib,  (good,  good)." 

The  venerable  visitor  smiled,  and  retorted — 

"  Tdib  kateir,  (very  good)." 

A  pause  naturally  ensued,  yet  I  was  not  discour- 
aged. It  seemed  to  me  that  the  visit  and  the  con- 
versation were  advancing  as  favorably  and  much  in 
the  same  manner,  as  other  morning  calls  I  remem- 
bered, and  I  rubbed  my  hands  with  satisfaction  as 
if  delectable  news  had  been  broached. 

Meanwhile,  Golden  Sleeve  had  disappeared,  to  re- 
turn with  chibouques  and  to  order  coffee,  and  we  sat 
blandly  smiling  upon  our  guest  and  upon  each 
other — while  the  old  gentleman  surveyed  our  apart- 
ment, and  took  up  a  gilt-bound  book,  a  gay  pen- 
wiper, and  other  little  objects  of  a  traveller's  table, 
which  he  examined  with  great  interest,  and  pro- 
nounced— 

"  Tdib  hateir.'" 

He  then  propounded  an  inquiry  in  choice  Arabic, 


ADDIO    KHADRA.  230 

very  slowly  and  distinctly,  and  very  loudly,  as  if 
we  were  all  deaf.  Not  having  the  faintest  idea  of 
what  was  asked,  we  smiled  blandly  again,  but  said 
nothing.  Upon  a  repetition  of  the  question,  how 
ever,  as  in  our  parley  with  the  guards  at  the  gate 
of  the  city,  we  undertook  a  speech  in  parts,  like  a 
catch. 

Leisurlie,  with  a  beaming  smile,  commenced — 

•'  La,  (no)." 

I  ventured  as  before — 

*'  Bukara,  (to-morrow)." 

And  the  sententious  Pacha  gravely  concluded 
with, 

**  KooUoohV 

Which  is  a  very  terrible  oath. 

The  Armenian  smiled,  evidently  perceiving  that 
we  were  thrusting  in  the  dark,  and  we  all  relapsed 
into  smiling  silence,  until  the  commander  returned 
with  pipes  and  coffee. 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Leisurlie  that  hav- 
ing this  private  opportunity  of  conversation  with 
an  oriental  gentleman,  it  behooved  him  to  charge 
his  mind  with  such  political  and  general  informa- 
tion upon  the  East  as  he  could  obtain  from  our 
friend.  And  he  probed  him  upon  the  political 
side. 

Alas !    the  old  gentleman's  information  was  an 


236  IHE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

apple  of  Sodom,  tasteless  and  juiceless.  In  fact, 
he  knew  nothing  about  the  "  Eastern  Question." 
And  no  happier  was  the  result  of  the  other  general 
inquiries  with  which  gentlemen  of  different  parts 
of  the  world  consider  it  their  duty  to  perplex  each 
other. 

Leisurlie  regained  his  beaming  smile,  as  he  dis- 
covered there  was  no  hope  of  authentic  information 
upon  any  subject,  and  in  his  grateful  gladness  of 
heart,  he  proposed  that  the  venerable  white  beard 
of  our  guest  should  be  incensed — a  delicacy  of  hos- 
pitality exclusively  oriental.  The  wise  men  of  the 
East,  using  the  advantages  which  custom  secures  to 
them,  have  a  pleasant  way  of  clapping  hands  when 
bearded  visitors  arrive,  and  order  slaves  to  bring 
chafing-dishes  heaped  with  burning  gums,  of  which 
the  odor  escapes  through  holes  in  the  lid  of  the 
vessel,  and  which,  held  under  the  beard,  imparts  a 
perfume  that  lingers  for  several  days  after.  It  is  no 
more  than  a  just  homage  to  that  manly  ornament, 
of  which  we  western  men  of  razors  have  no  ade- 
quate idea. 

I  commend  the  reflective  reader  to  the  quaint 
story  of  the  beard  of  St.  Nicephorus,  as  illustrating 
the  eastern  reverence  for  that  appendage.  It  is  told 
by  Maundrell,  who  relates  that  Nicephorus  was  a 
person  of  the  most  eminent  virtue,  but  the  endow- 


ADDIO    KHADRA  237 

merits  of  his  mind  were  not  properly  manifested  in 
his  beard,  for,  in  fact,  he  had  none  at  all.  "  Upon 
occasion  of  which  defect,  he  fell  into  a  deep  melan- 
choly." 

The  devil  stepped  in  at  this  juncture,  as  usual, 
with  offers  of  assistance  upon  the  signature  of  that 
little  bond  wherewith  he  takes  security.  But  the 
saint  repelled  the  overture,  although  with  ardent 
longings  for  the  beard,  and  seizing  the  downy  tuft 
upon  his  chin — '*  for  he  had,  it  seems,  beard  enough 
to  swear  by" — to  witness  his  firm  resolution,  lo ! 
the  hair  stretched  with  "  the  pluck  he  gave  it ;"  and 
"  as  young  heirs  (did  the  reverend  chronicler  intend 
a  pun  ?)  that  have  been  niggardly  bred,  generally 
turn  prodigals  when  they  come  to  their  estates,  so 
he  never  desisted  from  pulling  his  beard  till  he  had 
drawn  it  down  to  his  feet!" 

But  just  as  we  were  about  consulting  Golden 
Sleeve  as  to  the  probable  presence  of  the  chafing- 
dish  in  the  house,  our  visitor  rose  and  took  leave, 
inviting  us  most  cordially  to  return  his  visit ;  which 
invitation,  we,  remembering  Khadra,  most  cor- 
dially accepted — chorussing  "  Uiib  'kateir^''  as  the 
venerable  beard  disappeared. 

The  next  morning  led  us  to  the  Armenian  con- 
vent. It  is  full  of  great  riches  The  doors  of  sun- 
dry cabinets  are  of  mother-of-pearl  and   tortoise- 


r 

238  THE    HOWADJI    IN  SYRIA. 

shell,  diid  through  such,  I  had  no  doubt,  we  should 
pass  into  the  presence  of  Khadra. 

Golden  Sleeve  ushered  us  up  broad  flights  of 
steps,  until  we  reached  the  spacious,  sunny  roof  of 
the  building.  The  doors  of  various  apartments 
opened  upon  it,  and  at  one  of  them  the  commander 
stopped.  It  was  opened  immediately.  A  square 
little  room  was  revealed,  and  the  divan  around  the 
walls  was  apparently  covered  with  bundles  of  choice 
and  glittering  silks  and  gold  stuffs,  which  presently 
moved,  however,  and  proved  to  be  a  party  of  Smyr- 
niote  Armenians  paying  a  call. 

The  smile  of  the  old  man  welcomed  us,  and  we 
saluted  the  bales  of  silk  and  satin  as  we  entered. 
The  Smyrniotes  all  rose,  and  clustering  together  in 
gorgeous  confusion,  rolled  like  a  brilliant  cloud 
around  the  room,  and  then  swept  out  of  the  door. 
Nor  shall  I  ever  know  if  there  were  a  beautiful  face 
among  them. 

But  seeing  the  Armenian  mamma,  I  bowed  low 
and  said — remembering  her  Italian  capabilities — 

*'  Fa  hello  oggi,  signora,  (It  is  a  pleasant  morn- 
ing, madam)." 

'^  Si,  non  capisco,  signore,  (Yes,  sir,  I  don't  under- 
stand,) "  fell  naturally  from  her  lips. 

They  were  the  last  words  I  ever  addressed  as  con- 
versation to  the  Armenian  mother.     But  we  renew- 


ADDIO    KHA 


(Iiniversity) 


ed  with  the  old  gentleman  ihe  exciting  themes  of 
yesterday,  and  complacently  sat  silent  in  our  own 
smoke. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  room  but  the  divan,  and 
a  scant  strip  of  carpet  before  it.  But  it  was  sunny 
and  cheerful,  and  the  Armenian  mother  looked  as 
maternal  as  any  other.  Presently,  the  father  sum- 
moned a  slave  and  dispatched  him  from  the  room, 
and  a  moment  after,  the  dreamy  eyes  were  looking 
in  at  the  door,  and  the  beautiful  Khadra  entered. 

In  truth,  a  houri ;  for,  upon  a  glittering  salver,  she 
offered  us  the  delicate  conserves  which  only  the 
orientals  —  those  honey-loving  epicureans  —  know 
As  the  thick  transparency  melted  upon  my  tongue^ 
I  saw  only  her  richly  humid  eyes,  and  in  the  rose  of 
Persia  which  flavored  those  sweets,  I  tasted  but  her 
glances. 

I  drew  from  my  pocket  the  flower  she  had  dropped 
in  the  church,  and  unobserved  of  the  others,  pressed 
it  to  my  lips.  A  sudden  light  of  remembrance  and 
recognition  flashed  in  her  eyes,  but  it  faded  instant- 
ly into  their  usual  moonlike  dreaminess. 

She  passed  to  the  others,  and  I  marked  the  elabo- 
rate richness  of  her  dress,  and  with  the  extremest 
satisfaction.  Because  brilliant  and  glowing  stuffs, 
gems,  and  flowers,  and  gold,  are  the  happy  hints  in 
nature  of  that  supreme  human  beauty  to  which  in- 


240  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

stinct  directly  attaches  them  wherever  it  appears. 
And  so  in  the  famous  portaits  of  the  world  are  the 
beautiful  women  arrayed.  The  Arabian  poets  are 
right  when  they  clothe  their  heroines  in  magnifi- 
cence, and  enshrine  them  in  garden  pavilions.  So 
under  birds  of  Paradise  melting  in  lustrous  heavens, 
and  under  the  luxuriant  splendor  of  tropical  trees, 
should  the  lover  steal,  enchanted,  to  that  bower, 
and  pressing  aside  opposing  flowers,  whose  souls, 
by  that  pressure,  exhale  in  passionate  odors  to  his 
brain, — look  in  upon  his  love. 

— "  But  a  simple  white  muslin  and  a  rose  ?" — 

Ah !  Traddles,  they  are  sweet  and  pretty,  and 
they  suit  the  "dearest  girl."  But  the  eastern  beau- 
ty is  another  glory  than  the  pale  sweetness  of  your 
blonde. 

Khadra  went  out,  and  returned  with  sherbet.  I 
touched  her  finger  as  I  took  my  glass, — I  drained 
it,  and  in  my  cup,  her  beauty  was  the  melted 
pearl. 

She  was  silent  as  a  phantom.  When  she  had  per- 
formed the  graceful  services  of  hospitality,  she  sat 
in  a  corner,  where  the  sunlight  streamed  all  over 
her  and  looked  at  me  with  the  large  eyes.  Grazelle- 
eyes,  perhaps,  the  poets  would  have  called  them, 
not  so  much  because  the  eyes  of  gazelles  are  intrin- 
sically very  beautiful,  but  because  every  association 


ADDIO    KHADRA.  241 

with  the  animal  is  so  graceful  and  delicate,  so  wild 
and  unattainable. 

The  Pacha  rose,  but  I  lingered.  I  was  loth  to 
lose  that  strain  of  the  Eastern  poem.  I  lingered — 
but  turning,  slowly  followed  the  Pacha,  and  that 
vision  follows  me  forever.  ^ 

Artoosh  forever  rides  away  in  the  Syrian  moon- 
light,— and  after  the  bonglorno  is  said  to  the  mother, 
and  the  last  smile  is  lighting  the  pleasant  face  of  the 
old  Armenian, — Khadra  stands  in  the  sunshine  of 
Jerusalem,  looking  at  me  as  if  the  world  were  a 
dream,  while  I  press  the  faded  flower  to  my  lips, 
and  look,  but  do  not  murmur, — 

— "Addio  Khadra." 
11 


XIV. 

COMING    AWAY. 

"  The  flowers  appear  on  the  earth  ;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  our  land. 

"  The  fig-tree  putteth  forth  her  green  figs,  and  the  vines,  with  the 
tender  grape,  give  a  good  smell.  Arise,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and 
ccme  away." 

So  we  sang  with  Solomon  as  a  soft  spring  day  led 
us  out  of  the  gate  of  Jerusalem.  Our  route  lay 
northward  toward  Damascus,  and  we  paused  on  the 
stony  way  looking  back  upon  the  holy  city,  from  the 
point  whence  Mary  and  her  child,  coming  from  Na- 
zareth, first  beheld  it. 

It  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  view  of  Jerusalem.  The 
broad  foreground  of  olive  groves  narrows  into  the 
gorge  of  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat,  and  the  gentle 
rise  of  the  city  from  Mount  Moriah  to  Mount  Zion, 
reveals  the  mass  of  domes  and  roofs  relieved  by 
an  infrequent  minaret,  and  based  in  the  green 
groves  of  the  mosque  of  Omar.  The  eye  clings 
to   the    aerial    elegance    of   the    dome,    and    tries 


COMING    AWAY.  243 

to  fashion  the  architectural  splendors  which  flash- 
ed from  that  very  spot  upon  the  eyes  of  the  Naza- 
renes. 

Then  returned  the  same  vision  which  had  greeted 
our  approach, — the  dream  of  gardens,  terraces,  and 
palaces,  and  the  clustering  magnificence  of  a  metro- 
polis. But  it  vanished  while  we  gazed.  The  solem- 
nity and  sadness  of  the  landscape  oppressed  us  with 
their  reality.  For  the  traveller  must  still  feel  that 
if  the  Lord  once  especially  loved  the  land,  it  has 
now  only  the  bitter  memory,  not  the  radiant  pre- 
sence, of  that  favor. 

The  day  saddened  as  we  advanced  into  a  dreary 
country.  It  rolled  around  us  in  rocky  hills.  There 
were  no  houses,  no  people.  It  is  a  landscape  with- 
out grandeur,  but  monotonously  dreary.  The  camp 
was  pitched  at  sunset  by  the  fountain  at  which 
Mary,  returning  to  Nazareth,  discovered  that  her 
son  had  tarried  in  Jerusalem. 

The  next  day,  as  we  came  into  a  richer  region, 
Mary  was  still  the  mournful  figure  that  haunted  ima- 
gination. The  landscape  even  to-day  sympathizes 
wuth  her,  and  its  silence  hushes  and  subdues  your 
thoughts.  Elected  of  the  Lord  to  bear  his  child, 
she,  the  favored  of  women,  should  yet  taste  little 
maternal  joy, — should  feel  that  he  would  never  be 
a  boy,  and,  with  such  sorrow  as   no  painter  has 


244  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

painted  and  no  poet  sung,  know  that  he  must  be 
about  his  father's  business. 

The  Roman  church,  however,  which  clings  with 
such  natural  and  tender  piety  to  the  image  of  the 
Madonna,  has  fostered  many  a  picture  in  which  ar- 
tistic imagination  restores  to  Mary  all  that  ihe  hu- 
man heart  desires.  I  remember  in  one  of  the  small 
rooms  of  the  Uffizi  Gallery  in  Florence,  a  little  paint- 
ing representing  the  mother,  young  and  fair,  sitting 
in  a  pleasant  room  and  sewing.  She  is  looking  up 
with  maternal  fondness  at  the  young  Jesus,  who 
comes  running  in,  a  beautiful  boy,  and  holds  up  to 
her  a  passion-^ower. 

But  not  in  any  pleasant  room  to  Mary  sewing 
and  smiling,  did  her  child  truly  show  the  passion- 
iiower,  but  here  at  the  fountain  of  El  Bir,  in  the 
Syrian  twilight,  when  she  discovered  that  he  had 
tarried  in  Jerusalem. 

As  you  go  northward  from  Jerusalem,  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  country  is  oppressive.  Grain  waves  in 
all  the  valleys.  Olives  and  figs  abound,  but  there 
are  no  scattered  houses,  only  little  villages,  stern 
masses  of  gray  stone  upon  high  points,  whose  air 
and  position  are  warlike.  There  are  few  figures  in 
the  landscape,  and  they  pass  with  guns  and  stare 
strangely,  nor  always  with  a  greeting.  There  are 
no  proper  roads  in  Palestine,  only  miserably  stony 


COMING    AWAY.  245 

paths,  along  which  the  v\^ater  runs  in  rainy  days. 
Often  the  broad  sweep  of  grain  is  beautiful.  But 
so  spacious  a  landscape  is  always  sad,  if  unrelieved 
by  some  feature  humanly  sympathetic. 

— "  That  we  shall  find  in  the  town  of  Nablous," 
I  said  to  Leisurlie,  as  we  quietly  eat  our  dates  and 
alighted  at  the  well  of  Jacob,  which  lies  finely  at 
the  opening  of  the  valley  of  Nablous.  The  church, 
which  the  Empress  Helena  erected  over  it,  has  now, 
with  the  exception  of  four  columns,  happily  disap- 
peared, and  it  lies  open  to  the  blue  sky  and  the 
bare  mountains. 

This  Empress  Helena,  the  mother  of  the  Emperor 
Constantine,  is  also  the  mother  of  most  of  the 
church  traditions  and  of  the  churches  themselves  in 
Palestine.  It  was  she  who  discovered  the  true 
cross,  and  went  up  and  down  the  country  finding 
nails,  and  footprints,  and  blood,  and  milk,  and  other 
consolations  for  the  half-idolatrous  feeling  of  the 
church  which  canonized  her. 

I  say  half-idolatrous,  because,  although  theinter- 
est  in  relics  is  very  intelligible,  and  every  man 
would  be  glad  to  have  an  original  manuscript  page 
of  Shakespeare — yet  the  religious  appeal  through 
relics  rather  than  symbols,  when  addressed  to  an 
unrefined  and  unspiritual  nature,  is  sensual  and  not 
spiritual.    The  fact  is  lost  in  the  form.    The  Roman 


246  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

peasant  kneeling  before  the  statue  of  Jupiter,  which 
now  stands  for  St.  Peter,  in  his  church  at  Rome, 
does  really  worship  that  identical  bronze,  as  any 
spectator  by  observation  and  conversation  may  dis- 
cover— although  he  is  taught  by  the  Church  that 
the  statue  is  only  a  representation.  But  deeply  as 
his  mind  is  moved  by  the  statue,  when  his  eyes, 
and  hands,  and  forehead  are  touched  by  the  actual 
bones  of  a  saint,  does  any  man  doubt  that  he 
ascribes  to  them,  i)er  se,  a  direct  influence  upon  his 
spiritual  condition? 

The  Empress  Helena  was  recently  emancipated 
from  Paganism,  and  regarded  the  new  faith  in  a 
pagan  spirit.  The  traveller  gets  very  tired  of  her 
doings  in  Palestine,  feeling,  as  he  must  feel,  that, 
although  a  Romish  saint,  she  was  very  little  of  a 
Christian,  if  measured  by  any  other  than  the  exter- 
nal standards.  He  is  quite  able  to  believe  the  art- 
less story  of  the  guides  at  Jerusalem — that  Helena 
sought  everywhere  for  the  cross  but  vainly,  until, 
"  after  spending  a  great  deal  of  money,  she  found 
the  true  cross." 

Many  are  the  modern  travellers  who  tread  closely 
in  the  path  of  the  empress,  anxious  to  see  the  foot- 
prints and  nails,  writing  huge  volumes  upon  the 
authenticity  of  localities,  and  losing,  like  most  other 
critics,  the  spirit  in  the  science. 


COMING    AWAY.  247 

It  is  not  necessary  to  the  satisfaction  of  Syrian 
travel,  to  settle  the  disputed  points  of  position  and 
tradition.  The  great  points  are  forever  settled. 
Jerusalem,  the  Jordan,  Nazareth,  and  Bethlehem, 
and,  in  general,  the  whole  country.  Why  vex 
your  mind  with  the  study  of  the  surprising  erudi- 
tion that  has  been  lavished  upon  the  question 
whether  the  Calvary  chapel  in  the  church  of  the 
Sepulchre  is  the  identical  spot  of  the  crucifixion 
— knowing,  as  you  do,  that  here,  in  or  around 
Jerusalem,  Christ  was  crucified?  The  surprising 
erudition  displayed  will  forever  forbid  the  solu- 
tion of  the  question.  And  even  were  this  spot 
determined  to  be  the  true  one,  after  a  single  glance 
of  reverence  and  curiosity,  you  would  not  wil- 
lingly look  again  upon  the  tawdry  disfiguration  of 
the  place. 

To  a  man  of  thought  and  just  religious  feeling,  it 
is  the  contemplation  of  the  landscape  and  of  all  the 
external  local  influences  with  which  Jesus  Christ 
conversed,  which  is  the  true  point  of  interest  in  the 
Holy  Land.  The  curiosity  that  hunts  the  shape, 
and  size,  and  direction  of  his  footprints,  is  far  from 
the  sympathy  of  reverence.  It  is  natural  to  a  cer- 
tain degree,  and  honorable.  But  pushed  to  furious 
dispute  and  elaborate  research,  it  becomes  petty 
and  wearisome. 


248  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA 

— Is  it  suggested  that  it  strengthens  the  evi- 
dences of  Christianity  ? 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  does  Christianity  require 
any  such  evidences  as  this? 

— Is  it  thought  to  influence  the  authenticity  of 
the  narratives? 

But  is  not  the  essential  substance  of  those  narra- 
tives entirely  independent  of  localities? 

In  any  case  these  decisions  must  all  be  specula- 
tive and  relative.  It  is  only  quarrelling  with 
great  agony  of  argument,  whether  the  robe  of 
an  emperor  was  edged  with  red  or  purple — and 
some  ingenious  commentator  suddenly  breaks  in 
with  the  theory  that  the  emperor  had  no  robe 
at  all. 

In  Palestine,  as  elsewhere  in  the  world,  wherever 
the  peculiar  aspects  of  the  climate,  the  landscape, 
and  the  life  of  the  people  harmonize  with  tradition 
it  is  better  to  believe  than  to  doubt.  The  Rev.  Dr 
Duck,  was  dissatisfied  with  the  identity  of  the  tomb 
of  Lazarus,  because  of  the  reason  already  related. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  situation  of  Bethany  and 
the  general  character  of  tombs  at  that  period  once 
ascertained,  it  was  not  unfair  to  suppose,  for  obvious 
reasons,  that  tradition  had  cherished  the  precise 
locality.  It  w^as  simply  easier  to  believe  than  to 
disbelieve.     And  the  Pacha  feared  that  the  secret 


COMING    AWAY  249 

of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck's  incredulity  lay  in  the  fact 
that  the  tradition  was  '*  Romish." 

If  this  itching  wish  to  thrust  your  finger  in  the 
hole  in  the  side,  haunts  you  constantly — look  up 
and  look  around  you.  These  are  the  same  eternal 
sky  and  mountains  his  eyes  beheld.  Whether  he 
suffered  here  or  there — whether  this  is  Pontius  Pi- 
late's house  or  not — whether  this  is  the  Via  Dolo- 
rosa or  some  other  street,  you  know  not,  and  can 
never  know.  If  your  faith  relies  in  the  slightest 
degree  upon  that  order  of  testimony,  behold  your 
house  is  built  upon  the  sand,  and  the  rains  of  curi- 
osity will  fall  upon  it,  and  the  winds  of  speculation 
will  blow  against  it,  and  the  floods  of  erudition  will 
sweep  it  utterly  away. 

Sitting  by  the  well  of  Jacob,  you  are  lost  in 
speculation,  why,  of  the  two  faiths  born  in  the  East 
— Islam  and  Christianity — the  one  cannot  flourish 
away  from  its  birth-place,  while  the  other  withers 
and  dies  there. 

So  we  sat  and  mused,  looking  up  the  beautiful 

valley  of  Sychar,  between  the  mountains  Ebal  and 

Gherizim.     The  well  lies  at  the  confluence  of  this 

valley  with  the  plain.    Its  mouth  is  very  small,  and 

is  elevated  but  the  height  of  a  stone  or  two  above 

the  level  of  the  ground.     We  rode  up  the  beautiful 

valley.     The  bases  of  the  mountains  are  terraced, 
n* 


250  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

and  fine  gardens  fringe  the  stream,  which  flows  be* 
tween,  and  the  town  of  Nablous,  the  old  Sychar, 
promises  richly  to  the  eye. 

It  is  famous  for  hating  Christians,  and  is  the  scene 
of  poet  Harriet's  millet-martyrdom.  "  I  had  three 
slaps  in  the  face  from  millet  stalks."  The  interior 
breaks  the  promise  of  the  distant  view.  It  is  unut- 
terably filthy  and  disagreeable ;  and  yet,  as  you 
stumble  through  its  streets,  you  can  well  believe 
that  God  loved  the  elders  of  children,  who  are  still 
beautiful,  although  they  do  give  you  "  three  slaps  in 
the  face"  with  millet  stalks,  and  throw  stones  at  you 
from  behind  doors  and  corners. 

At  Nablous  I  first  felt  the  Syrian  beauty.  Deep, 
rich,  dreamy  eyes  haunted  the  air.  The  children 
stood  in  gay  costumes  by  the  broken  fountains, 
holding  their  vases  of  water  upon  their  shoulder,  as 
did  the  woman  of  Samaria,  and  not  upon  the  head, 
as  in  the  South.  They  turned  and  wondered  ;  they 
shrank,  and  veiled  their  faces,  then  glided  like 
ghosts,  away. 

A  storm  besieged  us  in  Nablous,  and  a  fellow- 
Christian,  of  the  Armenian  persuasion,  secured  us 
for  his  fleas,  during  the  time  we  remained.  We 
housed  in  a  huge  chamber,  upon  the  floor  of  which 
were  spread  our  mats  and  carpets.  It  was  only  a 
large,  damp,  and  dirty  room,  opening  upon  a  roof 


COMING    AWAY.  251 

whence  we  could  see  Gherizim,  and  a  few  palms, 
and  watch  for  a  break  in  the  clouds. 

They  broke — the  sun  burst  through,  and  led  us 
to  walk.  Remain  in  that  damp  and  dirty  room 
at  Nablous,  when  you  are  there,  until  the  sun 
will  be  your  cicerone.  None  other  shows  Nablous 
as  he. 

Sunken  in  lush  foliage,  it  is  a  more  Italian  Sor- 
rento : 

"  Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape." 

Seen  from  the  mountain-side,  its  masses  of  broken 
walls,  arches,  minarets,  domes,  and  gardens,  swarm- 
ing with  orange,  lemon,  pomegranate,  fig,  almond, 
and  olive  trees,  make  Nablous  read  to  the  eye  as 
an  Arabian  poem  to  the  ear. 

We  reached  a  picturesque  fountain  near  the  gate 
of  the  city,  and  pushing  under  archways,  through  a 
way  that  more  resembled  a  sewer  than  a  street,  we 
climbed  steep,  broken  stone  steps,  to  the  Jews' 
synagogue.  It  is  the  seat  of  the  old  Samaritans — 
the  most  Jewish  of  Jews,  of  whom,  at  Nablous, 
they  declare  only  a  hundred  are  now  living  in  the 
world.  A  white-bearded  old  man  showed  us  the 
venerable  copy  of  the  Law,  which  has  come  down 
from  some  marvellous  antiquity ;  they  call  it  three 
thousand  five  hundred  years  old.     It  is  a  roll  of  old 


252  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

parchment ;  but  I  saw  less  of  its  yellow  complexion 
than  of  the  golden-hued  faces  that  were  peeping  at 
us  through  the  open  dome  grating  of  the  ceiling, 
but  which,  as  I  solemnly  glanced  upward,  were 
hastily  concealed,  while  bounding  footsteps  rang 
along  the  roof. 

As  we  left  Nablous  the  next  day,  and  climbed 
across  the  mountain  to  old  Samaria,  now  Sebaste, 
its  remembrance  returned  to  me,  and  remains,  as  of 
a  beautiful  garden,  and,  excepting  Damascus,  the 
most  delicious  spot  to  the  eye  in  Syria. 


XV. 

ESDRAELON. 

We  left  Samaria  behind. 

I  sat  upon  a  column,  under  a  palm-tree  looking 
off  upon  the  sea-like  plain  of  Esdraelon.  An  old 
woman  in  faded  rags,  and  croning  to  herself,  brought 
a  little  cup,  into  which  she  poured  resin,  and  then 
kindled  a  flame.  The  incense  mingled  with  the  twi- 
light coolness.  She  placed  the  burning  cup  in  a 
tomb,  and  vanished,  without  looking  at  me. 

The  twilight  darkened,  and  the  yellow  moon  hung 
large  over  the  hills  where  the  Witch  of  Endor  lived. 
A  young  girl  stole  out  of  the  town,  bearing  a  taper, 
and  gathering  the  veil  closer  around  her  face,  as  she 
saw  the  fissure  of  a  man  and  a  Giaour.  She  drew 
from  her  robe  a  delicate  vase,  and,  filling  it  with  in- 
cense, she  lighted  it,  and  placed  it  in  a  tomb.  Then, 
regardless  of  me,  she  glided  away,  leaving  me  sitting 
upon  the  column,  under  a  palm-tree,  remembering 
the  mighty  story  of  that  plain. 

I  was  looking  from  the  cemetery  of  Djneen,  on 
the  edge  of  the  great  plain  of  Esdraelon,  the  famed 


254  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

battle-field  of  the  Old  Testament,  the  most  memo- 
rable field  of  history. 

Your  recollections  as  you  contemplate  that  plain, 
are  like  visions  of  the  night,  they  are  so  mighty, 
yet  to  you  so  unreal.  In  my  dreams,  as  I  looked, 
wonderful  phantom  hosts  marshalled  themselves 
upon  the  vague  vastness  of  the  plain  over  which 
snowy  Hermon  made  Switzerland  in  the  north,  and 
green  Tabor  was  a  graceful  Italy.  The  whirring 
rush  of  ghostly  chariots  announced  the  fate  of 
Sisera  ;  and  Josiah,  King  of  Judah,  fell  under  a 
pitiless  rain  of  Egyptian  arrows.  In  vision,  the 
Prophet  Elisha  fled  along  the  plain,  and  the  Leper- 
General  of  Damascus  passed,  going  to  wash  in 
Jordan,  and  Saul,  hidden  in  night,  crept  stealthily 
to  the  Witch  of  Endor.  The  Roman  purple  gleams 
through  the  moonlight,  as  Vespasian  rides  down  the 
lines  of  his  legions,  and  the  fierce  Crusaders  swarm 
over  the  plain.  Every  nation  famous  in  history, 
has  encamped  here,  and  here  is  yet  to  be  fought 
that  battle  of  Armageddon,  which  shall  decide  the 
future  fate  of  the  East. 

This  is  the  dowry  of  the  plain  of  Esdraelon  to 
memory  and  imagination,  as  you  contemplate  it 
from  the  palace-ruins  of  Ahab  at  Djneen,  and  such 
is  the  history  you  w^ould  fancy  for  it,  were  all  the 
records  dumb. 


ESDRAELON  255 

For  we  love  to  associate  great  events  with  noble 
landscapes,  and  thus  to  assert  the  harmony  between 
nature  and  man.  The  Nile  voyager,  even  were  the 
monuments  lost  in  sand,  and  Egyptian  history  per- 
ished, would  yet  endow  the  shores  of  the  mysteri- 
ous river  with  the  life,  lore,  and  art  of  Egypt. 
Their  final  cause  exists  to  the  traveller's  mind  to- 
day, as  to  the  Egyptian  mind  then  ;  and  surely  not 
the  least  satisfaction  of  travel  is  the  intellectual 
and  moral  perception  of  the  traveller,  revealing  to 
him  the  reason  and  naturalness  of  the  different 
achievements  of  different  nations.  This  implies, 
of  course,  that  there  is  not  an  essential  and  fatal 
difference  in  men,  and  that  a  Hoosier  can  under- 
stand an  Arab,  and  an  Esquimaux  a  Sicilian. 

The  proof  lies  in  individual  experience.  Many  a 
youth,  musing  upon  the  story  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
and  then  going  to  visit  their  remains,  is  secretly 
surprised  at  the  want  of  strangeness  in  the  impres- 
sion they  produce.  He  is  not  startled  in  the  Fo- 
rum. He  is  only  pensive  in  the  Coliseum.  He  is 
but  solemnized  at  Aboo  Simbel.  It  is  not  as  if  he 
had  stepped  into  a  dream,  as  he  supposed  it  would 
be ;  but  he  feels  a  natural  sympathy  with  the 
mighty  ruins  and  the  triumphant  time  they  recall, 
as  if  he  were  visiting  his  own  ancestral  estates  in 
another  country. 


256  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

But  if  the  boy  thus  loses  the  excitement  of  won 
der,  the  man  gains  a  sweeter  wisdom.  His  own 
experience  explains  to  him  the  secret  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  The  race  is  one — as  in  form,  so  in  essence, 
the  complexion  differing.  He  perceives  that  all 
civilizations,  and  artistic,  intellectual,  and  military 
achievements,  are  but  blossoms  of  the  same  tree. 
It  flowers  in  swart  Egypt — in  glowing  Syria — in 
polished  Greece — in  red  Rome — in  fierce  Huns  and 
swift  Goths — in  wise  England — in  eager  America  ; 
and  he,  youngest  child  of  the  race  and  of  Time, 
stands  beneath  those  spreading  boughs  and  beholds 
the  various  splendor  of  the  flowers  flashing  and  fad- 
ing, but  all  fed  by  the  same  life,  and  offering  but  a 
single  beauty  to  the  pensive  eye  of  thought. 

A  perfect  day  broke  over  Esdraelon.  The  great 
plain  stretched,  unmarked  by  villages  or  forests,  or 
any  sufficient  forms  of  life,  thirty  miles  in  length 
and  eighteen  in  breadth.  Our  way  lay  across  it  to 
the  hills  that  skirted  it  to  the  north.  They  were 
the  hills  of  Galilee. 

In  the  sunrise  we  descended  to  the  plain.  It 
was  brilliant  with  flowers,  and  with  grain,  and  lay 
to  the  sun  like  a  vast,  fertile  meadow.  The  snowy 
Hermon,  in  the  deep  blue  distance,  gave  it  dignity 
and  grandeur.  There  was  occasional  ploughing, 
but  the  spectral   husbandmen,  who  can  never  se- 


ESDRAELON.  257 

cure  their  crops  against  the  predatory  Arabs,  ana 
the  teams  of  camels  and  donkeys,  only  deepened 
the  superb  lifelessness  of  the  flowery  level,  over 
which  innumerable  birds  revelled  in  the  morning 
air,  as  if  to  purify  with  song  the  interval  between 
the  fierce  past  and  the  fierce  future,  prophecied  for 
the  region.  On  the  solitary  plain  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  make  the  words  of  Deborah  the  refrain  of 
^•heir  singing — "The  highways  were  unoccupied: 
fche  inhabitants  of  the  villages  ceased,  they  ceased 
in  Israel." 

We,  too,  loitered  idly  over  the  mighty  battle- 
field, singing.  Assyrians,  Jews,  Gentiles,  Saracens, 
Egyptians,  Persians,  Druses,  Turks,  Arabs,  Crusad- 
ers, and  Frenchmen  had  liere  fought  through  the 
dim  centuries  of  history,  and  we  American  Howadji 
remained  masters  of  the  field.  The  very  stars  in 
their  courses  fought  against  Sisera  in  the  shadow  of 
yonder  mountain,  and  we  trotted  leisurely  along, 
humming  Vedrai  carina, 

I  shared,  in  that  moment,  the  feelings  of  a  young 
military  scholar  whom  I  once  met  in  the  cars  go- 
ing from  Baden  to  Basle.  A  dreamy  summer  day 
flushed  the  landscape,  and  the  father,  telling  end 
less  battle-stories  to  stimulate  his  son's  ardor,  sud- 
denly pointed  out  a  monument  to  Marshal  Turenne. 
We  saw  it  vaguely  as  we  darted  by.    But  I  marked 


25S  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

no  kindling  ambition  in  the  boy-soldier's  eye,  only 
a  gleam  of  satisfaction — as  if  it  were  better  to  be 
young,  alive,  and  in  the  cars,  than  old,  dead,  and 
famous,  like  the  Marshal  Turenne. 

Even  so,  Sisera  and  Saul,  Josiah  and  Vespasian, 
were  but  ghosts  glimmering  in  the  radiant  day. 
Their  lives,  and  fightings,  and  deaths,  were  only 
themes  of  idle  reverie  in  the  intervals  of  singing. 
Happy  the  thought  that  distils  one  pure  drop  of 
wisdom  from  old  history. 

"  0  Allah  !"  said  to  me  the  gray  beard  merchant 
in  the  bazaar  of  Damascus — "  what  acres  of  roses 
have  gone  to  this  little  vial  of  attar  of  rose !" 

Yet  as  toward  noon  we  neared  the  hills  of  Gali- 
lee, through  the  murky  gleam  of  universal  military 
glory  which  hung  over  the  plain  of  Esdraelon  stole 
a  more  penetrant  ray.  Across  the  fiery  flash  of 
scimitars,  and  the  crowd  of  hurtling  arrows,  and 
the  glittering  Roman  eagles,  a  palm  branch  waved 
and  hushed  them  into  defeat.  As  we  neared  the 
hills  of  Galilee  the  resounding  echo  of  arms  died 
away,  and  in  visions  of  the  noon — surpassing  those 
of  twilight — triumphant  among  all  those  hosts,  and 
subduing  emperors,  sultans,  and  kings,  rode  upon 
a  donkey  a  greater  than  Solomon,  a  King  crowned 
with  thorns  and  sceptered  with  a  palm  branch. 


XVI. 

AVE     MAKIA! 

As  we  entered  the  hills  of  Galilee,  low,  and  bare, 
and  stony,  the  mighty  romance  of  the  morning  ended, 
and  our  minds  were  filled  with  a  very  humble  story 

We  wound  among  the  hills  in  silence,  stumbling 
up  one  of  the  worst  paths  in  Palestine,  and,  at 
length,  quite  in  their  heart,  descended  under  trees 
upon  a  secluded  and  lovely  valley.  It  was  dotted 
witJi  olive  groves,  and  oaks,  and  pomegranates, 
with  groups  of  Arabs,  and  camels,  and  horses,  and 
occasional  flocks.  The  same  low,  stony  hills,  like 
swelling,  bare  uplands,  inclosed  it,  and  in  the  depths 
of  the  valley,  leaning  against  the  mountains,  and 
holding  up  to  welcome  us,  a  minaret,  a  few  cy- 
presses, and  a  palm,  lay  little,  gray,  flat-roofed  Na- 
zareth. 

The  valley  was  tranquil  as  a  pastoral  picture,  and 
the  rocky,  steep  hills  were  grim  and  melancholy. 
All  the  greener,  therefore,  were  the  trees,  all  the 
more  gracious  and  significant  the  smooth  pasture 
upon  which  the  animals  quietly  grazed. 


260  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

We  descended  into  the  valley  with  extreme  satis- 
faction ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  places  which  satisfy  ima- 
gination. Its  seclusion  and  domesticity  of  aspect 
harmonize  with  the  sentiment  of  the  maternal  in- 
stincts, and  they  are  strong  in  your  sympathy  the 
day  you  come  to  Nazareth,  for  it  is  a  day  consecrate 
to  the  Madonna. 

Over  these  hills  she  walked,  the  Virgin  Nazarene, 
from  the  gray  little  village  leaning  upon  the  moun- 
tains. And  as  she  paused  by  this  fountain,  filling 
her  vase  with  water,  even  as  yonder  Nazarene  girl 
is  filling  hers  this  afternoon  ;  or,  as  fascinated  by 
the  thoughtful  twilight,  she  strayed  quite  away 
from  the  little  village,  still  she  meditated  the  pro- 
mise to  some  daughter  of  Israel,  and  returning  at 
evening  with  thoughts  stranger  and  brighter  than 
the  stars,  wondered,  and  wondered  again,  "  Can  any 
good  come  out  of  Nazareth  ?" 

As,  descending  into  the  plain,  the  words  rose  to 
my  mind,  the  music  of  the  convent  bell  came  ring- 
ing down  the  valley.  Sweet  and  strange  was  that 
music  in  the  pensive  silence  of  Palestine.  It  sang 
my  thoughts  to  meditation,  and  my  heart  sang 
hymns,  and  preached  of  remembered  days  and 
places  ;  June  Sundays  in  country  churches,  to  which 
we  walked  along  the  edges  of  fields,  and  under 
branching  elms  hushed  in  Sunday  repose  ;  the  long 


AVE    MARIA!  261 

village  road,  with  the  open  wagons  and  chaises,  in 
which  the  red-handed  farmers  in  holiday  suits  drove 
the  red-cheeked  family  to  the  church  door ;  the  bare 
wooden  church,  full  of  daylight,  with  the  square  hole 
in  the  ceiling,  through  which  the  sexton  looked  to 
see  if  the  parson  were  in  the  pulpit ;  the  gray-haired 
minister,  in  his  winter  woollen  gown,  or  summer  silk 
one,  and  always  with  black  gloves,  slit  in  the  mid- 
dle finger  that  he  might  turn  the  leaves ;  the  read- 
ing of  the  Bible,  in  a  cheerful,  sing-song  tone,  to 
which  its  choicest  sentences  always  sing  themselves 
now  ;  the  setting  the  tune  with  nasal  psalmody, 
and  the  growling  bass-viol,  as  if  a  hidden  artist  were 
playing  upon  a  lazy  lion;  the  long  sermon,  of  which 
I  faithfully  remembered  the  text  and  forgot  the  drift, 
and  in  which  the  names  of  Galilee,  and  Mary,  and 
Nazareth  were  sweet  sounds  only,  filling  my  mind 
with  vague  imagery,  whose  outline  has  long  since 
faded;  the  flowers,  and  the  sunny  hayfields  breath- 
ing sweetly  in  at  the  open  window,  and  all  the 
sweeter  when  the  parson  read  :  "  Yet  I  say  unto 
you,  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like 
one  of  these"  ;  the  people  in  the  pews,  all  whose 
faces  have  vanished  now,  save  hers,  so  many  years 
my  elder,  yet  still  radiant  with  youth,  queenly  in 
beauty  and  in  bearing,  who  came  when  all  were 
seated  following  the  old  grandfather  with  powdered 


262  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

hair  and  gold-headed  cane,  and  who  sat  serene  during 
the  service,  while  I,  an  eight  years'  child,  felt  a 
vague  sadness  overshadow  the  sweet  day,  and  quite 
forgot  the  sermon. 

This  was  the  nmsic  of  the  convent  bell  of  Naza- 
reth. In  that  calm  Syrian  afternoon,  memory,  a 
pensive  Ruth,  went  gleaning  the  silent  fields  of 
childhood,  and  found  the  scattered  grain  still  golden, 
the  morning  sunlight  yet  fresh  and  fair. 

Troops  of  girls  passed  us  as  we  came  to  the  town. 
Their  arms  and  hands  were  touched  with  kohl,  they 
wore  strings  of  pewter  coins  for  necklaces,  and  their 
heads  were  girt  with  brilliant  handkerchiefs.  They 
did  not  veil  their  faces,  and  at  times,  from  out  the 
throng,  great  eyes  rose  bewilderingly  upon  our  gaze. 
I  saw  many  an  eye  in  the  Nazareth  girls,  whose 
light  would  have  illuminated  an  artist's  fame  forever, 
could  he  have  fixed  it  within  the  pictured  face  of  his 
Madonna. 

The  traditions  which  cluster  around  Nazareth  are 
so  tender  and  domestic,  that  you  will  willingly  be- 
lieve, or  at  least  you  will  listen  to  the  improbable 
stories  of  the  friars,  as  a  father  to  the  enthusiastic 
exaggerations  of  his  child.  With  Jerusalem  and  its 
vicinity,  the  gravity  of  the  doctrine  is  too  intimately 
associated  to  allow  the  mind  to  heed  the  quarrels 
and  theories  about  the  localities.     It  is  the  grandeur 


AVE    MARIA!  263 

of  the  thought  which  commands  you.  But  in  Naza- 
reth, it  is  the  personality  of  the  teacher  which  in- 
terests you.  All  the  tenderness  of  the  story  centres 
here.  The  youth  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  unre- 
corded years  of  the  child  belong  to  Nazareth.  There- 
fore imagination  unbends  to  the  sweet  associations 
of  domestic  life.  The  little  picture  in  the  Uffizi  re- 
curs again,  and  the  delicate  sketches  of  Overbeck,  il- 
lustrating the  life  of  Christ,  in  which,  as  a  blooming 
boy  in  his  father's  shop,  he  saws  a  bit  of  wood  into 
the  form  of  a  cross,  looking  up  smilingly  to  the 
thoughtful  Joseph  and  the  yearning  Mary,  as  when 
he  brings  her  the  passion-flower  in  the  pleasant 
room. 

The  tranquil  afternoon  streams  up  the  valley,  and 
your  heart  is  softened,  as  if  by  that  tender  smile  of 
Mary  ;  and  yielding  to  the  soliciting  friars,  you  go 
quietly  and  see  where  Joseph's  house  stood,  and 
where  the  Angel  Gabriel  saluted  Mary,  and  the 
chimney  of  the  hearth  upon  which  she  warmed  food 
for  her  young  child,  and  baked  cakes  for  Joseph 
when  he  came  home  from  work,  and  the  rock 
whence  the  Jews  wished  to  cast  Jesus,  and  another 
rock  upon  which  Le  eat  with  his  disciples. 

You  listen  quietly  to  these  stories,  and  look  at 
the  sights.  The  childish  eftbrt  to  give  plausible 
form  to  the   necessary  facts  of  the  history  of  the 


trKlVERSIT"^ 


264  THE     IIOWADJI     IN     SYKIA. 

place,  is  too  natural  to  offend.  When  the  pretence 
is  too  transparent,  you  smile,  bnt  do  not  scold. 
For,  whether  he  lived  upon  this  side  of  the  way  or 
upon  that,  this  is  the  landscape  he  saw  for  thirty 
years.  A  quiet  workman,  doubtless,  with  his  father, 
strolling  among  the  melancholy  hills  of  Galilee, 
looking  down  into  the  lake-like  vastness  of  Esdrae- 
lon,  where  the  great  captains  of  his  nation  liad 
fought — hearing  the  wild  winds  blow  from  the  sea — 
watching  the  stars,  and  remembering  the  three  days 
of  his  cliildhood,  when  he  sat  in  the  temple  at 
Jerusalem. 

Walking  in  the  dying  day  over  the  same  solitary 
hills  you  will  see  in  the  sunset  but  one  figure  mov- 
ing along  the  horizon — a  grave  manly  form,  outlined 
upon  the  west. 

Here  was  the  true  struggle  of  his  life — the  resolve 
to  devote  himself  to  the  work.  These  are  the  ex- 
ceeding high  mountains  upon  which  he  was  lifted 
in  temptation  ;  here  in  the  fullness  of  his  youth 
and  hope  Satan  walked  with  him,  seductive.  For 
every  sin  smiles  in  the  first  address,  says  Jeremy 
Taylor,  and  carries  light  in  the  face  and  honey  in 
the  lip.  Green  and  flowery  as  Esdraelon,  lay  the 
valleys  of  ease  and  reputation  at  his  feet ;  but 
sternly  precipitous,  as  the  heights  of  Galilee,  the  cliffs 
of  duty  above  him  buried  their  heads  in  heaven. 


AVE    MARIA!  2G5 

Here,  too,  was  he  transfigured ;  and  in  the  light 
of  thought  he  floats  between  Moses  and  Elias,  be- 
tween faith  and  duty,  and  the  splendor  of  his  de- 
votion, so  overflows  history  with  glory,  that  men 
call  him  God 

12 


XVII. 

SUMMER. 

— •*  Who  is  this  that  cometh  out  of  the  wilderness  with  pil- 
lars of  smoke,  perfumed  with  myrrh  and  frankincense  ?" 

In  late  April,  in  the  vale  of  Zabulon,  riding  from 
pensive  Nazareth  in  the  mountains,  to  heroic  Acre 
upon  the  sea,  the  triumphant  pomp  of  the  Syrian 
summer  bursts  upon  you. 

You  cannot  see  the  advent  of  that  beauty  upon  a 
plain,  or  in  a  forest,  or  upon  a  hill,  or  along  the 
sea-shore,  alone.  It  is  the  combination  of  all 
which  reveals  it.  Flowers  set  like  stars  against 
the  solemn  night  of  foliage — the  broad  plain  flash- 
ing with  green  and  gold,  state  livery  of  the  royal 
year  —  the  long  grasses  languidly  over-leaning 
winding  water-courses,  indicated  only  by  a  more 
luxuriant  line  of  richness — the  blooming  surfaces 
of  nearer  hills,  and  the  distant  blue  mistiness  of 
mountains,  walls  and  bulwarks  of  the  year's  garden, 
melting  in  the  haze,  sculptured  in  the  moonlight, 
firm  as  relics  of  a  fore-world  in  the  celestial  amber 
of  clear  afternoons — it  is  only  in  this  combination 


SUMMER.  267 

of  variety,  through  which,  on  a  brilliant  day,  you 
pass  over  the  vale  of  Zabulon,  that  you  recognize 
the  splendor  of  Syria. 

But  not  the  flute-sweetness  of  lawns  and  mead- 
ow lands  alone ;  not  the  sombre  bass  of  dark  for- 
ests; not  the  stringed  unison  of  gently-waving  hills, 
nor  the  keen  tone  of  a  mountain  outlined  horizon 
can  alone  satisfy  the  imperial  love  of  beauty — only 
the  rhythmical  assent  of  all  completes  the  symphony 
of  the  Syrian  year. 

A  bland  presence  it  advances  from  the  Caspian, 
perfumed  with  the  rose-secrets  of  Cashmere,  with 
the  breath  of  lands  watered  by  the  Tigris,  and  of 
the  gardens  of  the  Euphrates.  Following  the  sun 
with  beauty,  it  smoothes  the  land  into  grace,  bloom, 
and  summer.  Touching  the  snows  of  Lebanon, 
they  become  beautiful  feet  upon  the  mountains, 
running  with  glad  tidings  to  the  sea,  and  the  year 
follows  them,  pausing  upon  the  shore,  and  breath- 
ing balm  far  over  the  water. 

In  the  vale  of  Zabulon,  quickened  by  the  fullness 
and  ripeness  of  the  unwithering  warmth,  penetrat- 
ed with  a  sense  of  delight  in  the  year,  which  not 
even  Italy  imparts,  I  recalled  the  words  said  to  me 
in  passing,  years  before,  by  a  poet  in  New  England — 
"  What  Syrian  sunshine!" 

It  was  the  most  delicate  of  June  mornings,  one 


268  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYKIA. 

of  those  rare  days  with  us,  in  which  the  sky  charged 
with  rosy  light  seems  but  an  evanescent  bloom 
upon  the  air,  and,  as  we  met  upon  a  village  common, 
overbreathed  by  blossoming  apple  orchards,  the  poet 
said,  "  What  Syrian  sunshine  !" 

The  words  haunted  me.  They  expressed  what  I 
had  vaguely  felt  of  the  summer.  With  the  poet  they 
were  metaphor.  With  me  they  became  a  feeling. 
It  ripened  into  desire.  The  East  lay  in  my  imagi- 
nation, a  formless  glow,  like  a  distant  oleander  bush 
in  flower.  I  came  to  the  garden,  to  the  oleander, 
to  the  East.  The  glow  was  a  burning  beauty  all 
around  me.  I  plunged  spurs  into  my  horse  and 
gallopped  through  the  flowers,  shouting,  as  if  the 
poet  in  the  cool  New  England  village  could  hear 
me — "  What  Syrian  sunshine  !" 

If  you  doubt,  read  Solomon's  Song.  That  whole 
book  is  a  summer  lyric  of  Syria.  The  very  sensu- 
ousness  of  the  imagery  reveals  the  voluptuousness  of 
the  impression.  Yet  how  large,  how  rich,  how  sug- 
gestive! How  it  is  forever  the  first  of  love-songs! 
To-day  Solomon  might  lie  upon  a  sunny  side  of 
Zabulon,  and,  wooing  the  landscape,  sing  that  song 
anew.  For  strange  as  it  appears  of  that  most 
passionate  of  poems,  it  is  Wordsworthian  in  its  in- 
tense reality.  The  glow  that  permeates  it  is  the 
inexpressible  inspiration  of  the  Syrian  summer. 


SUMMER.  269 

Advancing  through  the  festal  land,  gladly  wreath- 
ing the  pensive  image  of  Nazareth  with  these 
abounding  flowers,  you  repeat  that  song  as  the  only 
justice  to  your  eye  and  heart.  And  you  peal  it  a 
cheerful  battle-cry  against  all  the  doubters — baring 
your  brow  to  the  summer  as  it  deepens  around  you, 
and  singing  to  it  as  Solomon  sang  to  his  beloved — 
Behold  thou  art  fair,  my  love  :  behold  thou  art 
fair."  — 


XVIII. 

ACRE. 

We  came  to  Acre,  a  little,  dull,  ruined  old  town 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  sea,  which  dashed  against 
it  in  foaming  breakers,  that  day. 

It  has  been  battered  in  all  kinds  of  wars.  In  1281 
the  Saracens  thundered  at  its  gates  with  sixty  thou- 
sand cavalry,  and  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  in- 
fantry. Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  reduced  it.  Ibra- 
him Pacha  carried  it  by  assault,  and  in  1840  it  was 
destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  it  own  magazine 
while  the  British  fleet  lay  before  it,  bombarding. 
It  has  been  taken  many  times — although  Napoleon 
could  not  take  it — and  looks  no  longer  worth  the 
taking.  The  sea  dashes  upon  it  as  upon  an  old 
hulk  which  it  would  gladly  utterly  destroy. 

But  still  in  Acre  is  an  exquisite  mosque,  the 
mosque  of  Sultan  Djezzar,  a  mosaic  of  fine  marbles 
rising  from  cypresses  and  palms.  Its  dome  is  ruined 
by  much  bombarding;  but  a  fountained  kiosk  upon 
a  pavement  shadowed  by  palms,  and  the  airy  arcade 
which  surrounds  the  inclosure,  like  the  gallery  of  a 


ACRE.  271 

cloister — except  that  this  breathes  of  pleasure  and 
not  of  meditation — give  memory  still  a  nucleus  in 
Acre. 

As  we  stroll  about  the  ruined  fortifications  in  the 
still  noon,  and  look  across  the  water  to  the  misty 
headland  which,  braving  the  sea  at  the  farther  ex- 
tremity of  the  crescent  beach,  nine  miles  away — 
Golden  Sleeve  tells  us  is  Mount  Carmel,  we  listen 
to  the  tradition  which  quaint  Henry  Maundrell  tells 
of  the  convent  of  Acre. 

When,  after  that  turbulent  thundering  at  the 
gates,  the  Saracens  entered  the  city,  the  lady  abbess 
of  the  nunnery  fearing  for  herself  and  nuns  the  fate 
of  houris,  summoned  them  together  as  the  enemy 
approached,  and  exhorted  them  to  cut  and  mangle 
their  faces,  thus  to  quench  in  their  own  blood  the 
lust  of  the  conquerors.  As  she  spoke  she  set  them 
the  example,  and  all  the  nuns  inspired  by  her  lofty 
courage,  did  likewise.  And  while  they  still  stood 
bleeding  and  mangled,  the  soldiers  burst  into  the 
convent,  and  mad  with  disappointment,  immediate- 
ly slew  them  all — "  thus  restoring  them,  as  in  chari- 
ty we  may  suppose,"  says  the  grave  and  sweet 
chronicler,  "  to  a  new  and  inviolable  beauty." 

Another  quaint  old  legend  of  Acre  has  the  flavor 
of  pure  stoicism. 

In  the  days  of  St.  Louis,  one  of  the  monks  en- 


272  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

countered  an  old  woman  threading  the  streets  of 
Acre  with  a  cruse  of  water  and  a  pan  of  coals.  He 
asked  her  why  she  carried  them.  The  water  to  ex- 
tinguish hell,  said  she,  and  the  fire  to  burn  up 
Paradise,  that  then  the  selfishness  of  man  may 
be  subdued,  and  he  may  love  God  for  himself 
alone. 

The  bazaars  were  busy  in  Acre.  The  life  of  the 
town  was  concentrated  around  the  shops,  which  are 
called  as  gay  as  those  of  Aleppo,  and  the  turban ed 
gossips  with  the  slouching  soldiery  criticized  the 
Howadji  as  they  rode  slowly  out  of  the  ruined  little 
town. 

The  beach  between  Acre  and  Mount  Carmel  is 
not  surpassed  in  my  memory.  Certainly  none  so 
spacious  connects  two  points  so  variously  famous. 

The  sea  smoothed  the  crescent  shore,  and  polished 
a  black  marble  pavement  for  our  going.  The  bril- 
liant day  was  melting  into  the  tenderness  of  evening 
light,  but  was  still  so  soft  and  glowing  that  I  could 
well  fancy  Palestine  once  more  beloved  of  the  Lord. 
All  day  we  had  seen  Mount  Carmel  from  Acre,  hazy 
in  the  distance  ;  and  it  was  hard  to  feel,  as  we  look- 
ed at  it,  gallopping  over  the  beach,  that  it  was  Eli- 
jah's mount,  and  that  the  sparkling  sea  was  the 
same  over  which  the  boy  saw  the  cloud  of  a  hand's 
size  gathering. 


HITIVERSITT 


OF 


ArRF>-^.>gjUiFORNtAi 


273 


It  was  hard  to  feel  this,  because  the  Mediterra- 
nean had  invaded  the  gravity  of  the  Syrian  journey, 
and  the  serious  thoughts  which  it  is  impossible  to 
escape  among  the  hills  of  G-alilee,  were  smothered 
m  the  flowers  of  Zabulon.  The  sea  brought  the 
vision  and  remembrance  of  other  lands  which  it 
laved.  The  austere  imagery  of  prophetic  times 
melted  in  the  glad  day.  Zabulon  whispered — 
"  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one 
of  these,"  and  the  vision  of  solemn-eyed  prophets 
faded. 

Moreover,  the  landscape  of  all  famous  stories  has 
a  character  which  the  eye  can  never  see.  Even 
when  you  have  stood  upon  Marathon,  and  have  seen 
the  mountains  which  look  down  upon  it,  imagina- 
tion, despite  memory,  will  still  marshal  the  resound- 
ing hosts  upon  another  plain  than  that.  Herodo- 
tus, Josephus,  Thucydides,  Xenophon,  first  mould 
the  images  of  their  story  in  the  plastic  imagination 
of  the  boy,  and  no  visible  and  possible  landscape  is 
vast  enough  to  hold  them.  The  great  councils  of 
Eome,  the  triumphs,  the  processions,  and  the  fiery 
words  which  time  has  not  chilled — these  were  not 
held,  and  seen,  and  spoken,  in  the  forum  whose  ruins 
you  have  seen,  but  in  some  fair  and  eternal  forum 
of  the  imagination.  What  Bermuda  voyager  has 
ever  seen  the  "still  vexed  Bermoothes" — or  who 
12^ 


274  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

ever  felt  the  gray  old  olive  grove  on  the  shore  of  the 
Brook  Kedron,  to  be  the  true  Gethsemane  ? 

And  because  Solomon's  song  had  been  the  proem 
and  the  poem  of  the  day,  it  was  difficult  to  see  in 
the  hazy  headland,  like  a  point  in  Nicholas  Poussin's 
landscapes,  the  Carmel  of  grim  history. 

We  spurred  along  the  beach  upon  the  full  run. 
Golden  Sleeve  dropped  chibouque  and  kurbash, 
scrambled  off  his  horse  and  on,  and  gave  gallopping 
chase.  The  Arabs  swarmed  after,  wide-flying — as 
Homer  would  have  sung — on  the  shore  of  the  loud- 
sounding  sea.  The  Pacha  and  I  dashed  ahead  of 
the  turbanned  crew,  Cceur  de  Lion  and  Philip 
Augustus  before  Saladin,  the  Crusaders  before  the 
Saracens. 

— Or  Julian  and  Maddalo,  rather,  who  ran  along 
the  Lido  shore  of  the  same  sea, — 

'*  For  the  winds  drove 


The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 

Into  our  faces  ;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 

Stripped  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening  North, 

And  from  the  waves  sounds  like  delight  broke  forth 

Harmonious  with  solitude,  and  sent 

Into  our  hearts  aerial  memment." 

I  leaned  over  the  neck  of  my  horse,  straining 
ahead.  But  in  an  instant  I  rolled  upon  the  sand. 
The  stirrup  in  which  I  was  thoughtlessly  hanging 


ACRE.  275 

my  whole  weight,  broke,  and  I  fell  toward  the  sea, 
that  laughed  at  me  softly  with  inextinguishable 
laughter. 

"  Kooltooluk .'"  cried  the  Pacha,  reining  up. 

My  good  Arabian  stopped  instantly,  turned  to 
look  at  me,  and  the  next  moment  we  were  all  wide- 
flying  again,  in  the  exhilarating  air,  Crusaders  and 
Saracens,  and  the  sun  left  us  climbing  Mount  Car- 
mel. 


XIX. 

SEA    OF    GALILEE. 

A  SHEET  of  dark-blue  water  among  naked  hills, 
is  the  Sea  of  Galilee.  Only  the  dismal  little  town 
of  Tiberias  breaks  the  mournful  monotony  of  the 
shore,  from  which  the  bold  hills  gradually  recede 
higher  and  farther,  to  the  snowy  sublimity  of 
Hermon. 

We  came  over  the  mountains  from  Nazareth,  and 
as  we  descended  to  the  lake  and  saw  the  shattered 
walls  of  Tiberias  with  a  few  palms,  sad  and  unhand- 
some in  the  wind,  it  seemed  to  me  the  most  desolate 
and  forlorn  of  towns.  In  1835  an  earthquake  shook 
down  the  village,  and  the  whole  landscape  has  the 
sullen  aspect  of  a  volcanic  region.  We  looked  in 
vain  upon  the  dead  calmness  of  the  lake's  surface  for 
any  trace  of  the  beautiful  Jordan,  which  flows 
through  it.  Not  a  ripple  disturbed  its  dream.  In- 
deed, the  profound  solitude  and  mountainous  stern- 
ness of  the  region,  reminded  me  of  the  bewitched 
desolation  of  the  Dead  Sea.     Here  again  the  woe 


SEE    OF    GAlilLEE.  277 

denouuced  against  the  cities  of  the  shore  has  blast- 
ed the  sea. 

With  what  melancholy  curiosity  the  eye  follow- 
ed Golden  Sleeve's  finger  toward  the  site  of  Ca- 
pernaum. 

The  tent  was  pitched  on  the  high  bank  over  the 
lake,  with  the  door  toward  Mount  Hermon,  upon 
which  the  dying  day  played  wondrous  symphonies 
to  the  eye.  There  was  no  sail  or  boat  upon  the 
lake,  and  we  strolled  into  the  town. 

It  was  at  Tiberias  that  Eothen  attended  the  con- 
gress of  fleas,  and  the  filth  and  squalor  of  this  chapel 
of  ease  to  the  holy  city  of  Safiet  in  the  mountains, 
do  not  belie  their  fame.  The  town  is  thronged  with 
Flemish  Jews  who  await  here  the  coming  of  the 
Messiah,  who  will  reign  at  neighboring  SafFet,  before 
going  to  Jerusalem.  The  men,  clad  in  every  variety 
of  sordid  rags,  with  long  elfish  earlocks,  a  wan  and 
puny  aspect,  and  a  kind  of  drivelling  leer  and  cun- 
ning in  the  eye,  were  a  singular  combination  of 
Boz's  Fagin,  and  Carlyle's  Apes  of  the  Dead  Sea. 
Never,  surely  was  so  bewitched  and  strange  a  popu- 
lation. They  had  the  sallow  chalkiness  of  com- 
plexion peculiar  to  German  tailors,  and  wore  the 
huge  bell-crowned  black  hat  which  they  wear  every- 
where else  in  the  world.  But  the  women,  as  if  to 
complete  the  confusion,  were  even  comely,  and  their 


278  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYEIA. 

fair  round  faces,  with  caps,  and  the  coarse  substan- 
tiality of  the  German  female  costume,  perplexed  the 
fancy  upon  the  Sea  of  Galilee. 

Artistic  Leisurlie  drew  a  Christian  girl  with  her 
water  jar,  and  tried  to  draw  a  Muslim  boy.  But  he 
was  afraid,  and  ran  shouting  away,  laughingly  point- 
ing out  one  of  his  companions  as  a  proper  victim. 
But  we  started  upon  seeing  him.  Retzsch  had  been 
before  us,  and  in  his  Mephistophiles  has  drawn  only 
a  horribly  perfect  likeness  of  that  boy  of  Tiberias. 

The  morning  was  more  merciful  to  the  Sea  of 
Galilee.  The  sun  clomb  out  of  the  east  over  top- 
pling clouds,  while  we  skirted  the  lake,  often  walk- 
ing our  horses  in  the  water. 

The  shore  blazed  with  flowers.  Had  ours  been 
the  bridal  train  of  Helen,  skirting  classic  seas,  the 
way  could  not  have  been  more  festally  adorned. 
One  rhododendron  upon  the  shore  of  Galilee  flames 
in  my  memory  yet,  a  symbol  of  the  tropics.  The 
tangled  luxuriance  of  flowers  brushed  against  us,  as  if 
to  secure  in  our  hearts  sweeter  remembrances  of 
Galilee  than  that  of  the  apes  of  the  Dead  Sea,  with 
long  ear-locks  who  haunt  the  miserable  Tiberias. 
These  flowers  are  the  relics  of  Capernaum,  for  so 
utterly  has  the  city  vanished  from  the  earth.  A  few 
cattle  grazed  on  the  lake-side,  or  stood  contempla- 
tive in  the  water.    Two  or  three  Bedoueen  shepherds 


SEA    OF    GALILEE.  279 

gazed  listlessly  over  the  lake.  It  was  a  bewildering 
morning. 

Every  day  as  you  journey  in  Palestine,  the  natu- 
ral imagery  of  Jesus'  words  solicits  your  eye  and 
touches  your  heart. 

As  you  went  down  through  flowery  Zabulon  to  the 
sea  you  heard  him  say — "  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these."  As  your  eye  wanders 
musingly  over  the  landscape,  and  marks  the  solitary 
towns  upon  the  hills,  especially  SafFet  above  you  on 
the  mountains,  when  you  turn  away  from  the  sea  of 
Galilee,  you  recall :  "  A  city  set  upon  an  hill  cannot 
be  hid."  Watching  the  simple  and  cumbrous  pro- 
cesses of  grinding  grain  between  stones,  usually  done 
by  women,  you  understand  that  "  one  shall  be  taken 
and  the  other  left."  As  the  camels  and  asses  pass 
laden  with  goat-skins  of  wine,  you  understand  why 
*'  no  man  putteth  new  wine  into  old  bottles.'' 

These  things  impress  you  with  the  reality  of  that 
life.  If  a  teacher  were  now  walking  up  and  down 
the  land,  and  were  illustrating  his  words  by  the  ob- 
jects that  met  his  eyes,  you  would  constantly  hear  the 
familiar  figures  of  the  gospels.  And  these  unchang- 
ed aspects  of  landscape  and  life  surviving  through 
all  vicissitudes  of  race  and  fortune,  annihilate  time 
and  make  you  the  contemporary  of  Jesus,  as  in  the 
Pestum  temples  you  are  a  fellow-citizen  of  Pericles. 


280  THE    IIOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

We  emerged  upon  the  upper  valley  of  the  Jordan 
It  is  broad  and  beautiful,  but  desolate,  like  the  rest 
of  the  country.  Scattered  Bedoueen  camps  and  cat- 
tle were  the  only  population.  Luxuriant  grain 
waved  on  every  hand,  which  is  harvested  by  the 
Bedoueen,  who  come  in  for  that  purpose  from  the 
desert.  Flowers  grow  rankly,  and  the  plain  was  so 
spacious  and  mountain-walled,  that  there  is  nothing 
fairer  in  its  kind,  except  perhaps,  the  Swiss  valley 
of  Unterwalden. 

Crossing  the  main  stream  of  the  Jordan  upon  a 
picturesque  ruined  bridge,  of  Roman  construction, 
which  commands  a  view  of  the  whole  valley,  and 
beyond  which  are  remains  of  a  Roman  way,  the 
only  proper  road  in  Palestine,  we  began  to  ascend 
the  spurs  of  the  Gebel  Shekh,  or  Mount  Hermon, 
toward  Panias,  and  so  reached  our  last  station  in  the 
Holy  Land. 


XX. 

PANIAS. 

Panias  is  the  true  point  at  which  to  take  leave 
of  Palestine ;  for  there  what  is  most  beautiful  in 
human  history  mingles  with  what  is  most  sublime. 
At  Panias,  the  grace  of  Grecian  story  blends  with 
the  gravity  of  Christian  ethics. 

It  is  the  site  of  that  strange  old  legend  of  Plu- 
tarch, which  Milton,  Schiller,  and  Mrs.*  Barrett 
Browning  have  sung.  Here  were  the  statues  of 
Pan  and  his  peers  and  nymphs,  which  fell  and  shiver- 
ed, with  a  moan  far  resounding  over  land  and  sea,  at 
the  moment  of  Christ's  nativity.  It  was  even  more 
than  a  moan,  and  the  words,  **  Great  Pan  is  dead," 
swept  across  the  Mediterranean,  and  were  heard  by 
certain  mariners. 

If,  as  that  poet  of  the  Syrian  sunshine  has  said, 
*'  Ever  does  natural  beauty  steal  in  like  air  and  en- 
velope great  actions,"  it  is  as  often  true  of  the  sites 
of  beautiful  tradition.  Certainly  the  fountain  of 
Egeria,  by  its  waving  tapestry  of  maiden-hair  lern, 
appeals  to  the  eye  to-day,  as  the  story  of  the  nymph 


282  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

appeals  to  the  imagination.  Even  were  there  no 
legend,  your  musing  fancy  at  the  fountain  would  in- 
stinctively create  it. 

So  at  Panias.  a  feeling  of  poetic  tradition  inheres 
in  the  landscape.  It  is  not  lovely  and  pathetic  only, 
as  the  Syrian  landscape  generally  is,  except  on  those 
choice  days,  when  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  rules  the 
flowery  land.  But  as  you  turn  from  the  great  up- 
per valley  of  the  Jordan,  and  wind,  ascending, 
among  the  warm,  oak-covered  slopes,  and  see  at 
length  the  Italian  picturesqueness  which  embosoms 
the  town — then  imagination  demands  a  legend. 

You  find  it,  and  it  is  the  most  striking  of  all. 

You  will  well  remember  Panias,  because  you 
stand  there  as  a  man  whose  sympathy  does  not  begin 
with  a  time  or  a  person,  but  which  acknowledges 
the  same  imperial  truth  and  beauty  under  whatever 
masques. 

It  was  the  Cesarea  Philippi  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment. There  is  no  record  that  Jesus  was  ever  far- 
ther north  than  this  spot.  Yet  here  you  wonder  if 
he  did  not  go  on,  and  look  at  Damascus,  as  at  Naza- 
reth you  wonder  if  he  ever  went  down  through 
Zabulon  to  the  sea.  Probably  not ;  for  had  he 
done  so,  it  would  have  reappeared  in  the  imagery  of 
his  teachings,  as  did  the  other  large  and  simple 
features  of  what  he  saw. 


PANIAS.  283 

A  lofty  cliff  overhangs  Panias,  ana  n  its  face  the 
niche4s  hollowed  in  tvhich  the  statues  stood. 

You  will  figure  Jesus  standing  before  the  grotto ; 
but  he  will  not  seem  to  you  to  scorn  the  statues  as 
idols — which  was  the  weakness  of  Mohammed  at 
Mecca — but  to  reverence  in  them  the  holy  instinct 
of  beauty  from  which  all  art  springs.  He  would  not 
have  shared  the  very  error  he  condemned  in  idola- 
try, namely,  the  confusion  of  the  substance  with 
the  shadow  ;  but,  whatever  superstition  may  have 
seen  in  those  statues,  he  would  have  recognized 
their  significance.  "  I  come  not  to  destroy,  but 
to  fulfill."  The  invisible  world  made  visible  in 
these  fair  forms,  he  would  say,  is  yet  fairer  than  they 
suggest. 

He  who  was  baptized  in  Jordan,  would  not  fright 
the  delicate  naiads.  He  who  loved  the  birds  of  the 
air  which  nestled  in  the  trees,  would  not  harm,  even 
in  thought,  the  dryads  and  nymphs.  He  who  saw 
in  the  untoiling  flowers  a  richer  royalty  than  Solo- 
mon's, would  not  have  scorned  the  airy  forms  of 
their  spirits  in  men's  imaginations.  He  who  per- 
ceived in  all  the  lavish  glory  of  nature,  the  presence 
of  perfect  love,  would  not  have  chided  the  instinct 
which  gave  it  a  personality  >f  perfect  beauty.  The 
idolatry  he  would  not  endure ;  but  to  him  the  statue 
was  a  symbol,  not  an  idol. 


284  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SSTRIA 

No,  sweet  singer,  it  is  not  true  that, 

"  Earth  outgrows  the  nj  y  thic  fancies 
Sung  beside  her  in  her  youth, 
And  those  debonaire  romances 
Sound  but  dull  beside  the  truth." 

For  art  is  that  debonaire  romance  in  which  truth  is 
wedded  with  beauty.  And  that  mythology  was  the 
great  achievement  of  art  in  giving  to  your  soul  of 
'*  truest  truth,"  the  face  of  "  fairest  beauty." 

Thus,  as  the  sun  sinks  over  the  mountains,  and 
through  a  fig-tree  at  the  entrance  of  the  grotto,  the 
red  light  is  distilled  into  golden  green  within,  you 
remember  that  Jesus  stood  here,  and  wish  that 
the  source  of  the  Jordan  were  indeed  in  the  grot- 
to, as  was  long  supposed,  that  he  might  have 
been  baptized  in  water  flowing  thence.  As  his 
image  fades  in  your  mind,  and  for  the  last  time 
you  look  upon  any  landscape  that  he  might  have 
seen,  your  heart  cries,  even  as  he  there  might  liave 
cried '. 

Do  ye  leave  your  rivers  flowing 
All  alone,  0  Naiades, 
While  your  drenched  locks  dry  slow  in 
This  cold,  feeble  sun  and  breeze  ? 

From  the  gloaming  of  the  oak-wood 
O  ye  Dryads,  could  ye  flee  ? 


PANIAS.  886 


At  the  rushing  thunder  stioko  would 
No  sob  tremble  through  the  tree  ? 

Have  ye  left  the  mountain  places 
Oreads  wild,  for  other  tryst, 
Shall  we  see  no  sudden  faces 
Strike  a  glory  through  the  mist  ?" 


And,  at  midnight,  as  you  lie  musing  in  your  tent, 
Boothed  by  the  gurgling  murmur  of  the  streams 
that  make  the  Jordan,  thinking  those  unutterable 
thoughts  which  throng  the  silence  of  Palestine,  and 
will  forever  look  solemnly  after  you,  when  you  are 
gone,  like  the  angel  with  flaming  sword  from  the 
gate  of  Paradise  upon  Adam  and  Eve  departing  ; 
then  this  answer  fills  the  night,  like  a  majestic 
wind: 


«  The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament, 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent. 
With  flower  inwoven  tresses  torn. 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  moom. 

In  consecrated  earth, 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 
The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint. 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 


286  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Affrights  the  flamens  at  their  service  quaint, 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat 

M I R  A  G  . 

Pe"Jr  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice  battered  God  of  Palestine, 
And  mooned  Astaroth, 
Heaven's  queen,  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine  : 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn. 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz  mourn.  " 


DAMASCUS. 


''Es  Sham,  Sh&reef:  the  beautiful,  the  blessed." 

"  Ah !  if  but  mine  had  been  the  Painter's  hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw,  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

Wordsworth. 

"Air  rather  gardenny  I  should  say." — Melville's  Moby-Dick. 

"  Nor  shall  the  garden  during  his  pleasant  distraction  be  termed 
otherwise  than  Paradise,  with  whose  flowers  he  stuffs  his  bosom  and 
decketh  his  turbant,  shaking  his  head  at  their  sweet  savor." 

Robert  Withers,  1650. 
Grand  Signor^s  Seraglio. 

— "  0  just  Fakir,  with  brow  austere. 
Forbid  me  not  the  vine, 
On  the  first  day  poor  Hafiz'  clay 
Was  kneaded  up  with  wine." — 

Hajiz.    Emerson's  Translatioji, 
13 


THE   EYE  OF  THE  EAST. 

Out  of  the  South  blew  the  halcyon  day.  The 
sky  was  like  a  precious  stone.  Opals  and  tur- 
quoises are  the  earth's  efforts  to  remember  that 
glowing  sky  and  a  day  so  fair. 

We  wound  joyfully  along  under  the  snowy  brow 
of  Hermon.  The  path  climbed  northward  over 
wide,  bare  hills,  and  the  sound  of  running  water 
filled  the  air.  Presently  we  had  crossed  the  sum- 
mit of  the  ridge  between  the  valley  of  the  Jordan 
and  the  plain  of  Damascus.  The  streams  ran  no 
longer  southward,  but  flowed  with  us.  Our  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  north,  our  hearts  upon  Damas- 
cus. 

The  summit  of  each  hill  anxiously  gained,  con 
stantly  disappointed  us  by  revealing  another.  Con- 
versation flagged  and  died  away.  Each  rode  on 
alone.  A  Turk  passed  by  with  a  pompous  retinue, 
and  in  the  beauty  of  one  of  his  train,  which  not 
even  the  jealous  fullness  of  a  huge  black  silk  bal- 
loon could  utterly  conceal,  Damascus  came  out  to 


292  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

meet  us,  as  Venice  comes  to  you  in  the  first  gon- 
dola. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  broad,  desolate  land- 
scape to  attract  the  eye  or  engage  the  mind.  The 
interest  of  the  morning  was  absorbed  in  one  desire, 
painful  from  its  intensity,  the  desire  of  beholding 
Damascus. 

The  last  summit  was  reached.  A  vast  plain 
stretched  northward  between  azure  lines  of  moun- 
tain, and  a  dim  band  across  the  plains  united  them. 
It  was  the  foliage  that  embowers  Damascus.  Little 
dark  spots  were  scattered  on  the  else  treeless  plain. 
They  were  groves,  far  beyond  the  city.  They  lay 
like  islands  in  the  wilderness,  but  like  a  continent 
of  green  reposed  Damascus  upon  the  waste. 

As  we  approached,  the  vastness  became  beauty 
and  the  vagueness  form.  Arcadia  and  Boccacio's 
garden  faded  in  the  enchantment  of  that  vision. 
Clustering  minarets  and  spires,  as  of  frosted  flame, 
glittered  in  the  morning  above  the  ambrosial  dark- 
ness of  endless  groves  and  gardens.  There  were  no 
details,  only  the  thronging  richness  of  infinite  sug- 
gestion. It  was  the  metropolis  of  romance,  and 
the  well-assured  capital  of  oriental  hope.  Drawing 
aside  distance  like  a  veil,  it  challenged  worship  as 
it  revealed  its  beauty.  The  glowing  imagery  of  its 
description  in  eastern  poetry  paled  before  the  reali- 


THE    EYE    OF    THE    EAST.  293 

ty.  I  did  not  wonder  that  the  Emperor  Julian 
called  it  the  Eye  of  the  East,  nor  that  the  Prophet 
gazed  long  at  it  and  \Yith  tears,  murmuring  that 
there  could  be  but  one  paradise  and  that  his  must 
be  in  heaven — then  passed  on  as  from  the  only  syren 
he  feared. 

A  forest  of  sparkling  minarets,  and  the  billowy 
beauty  of  endless  foliage — that  was  all. 

And  like  weary  travellers,  before  whom  flowery 
lawns  of  repose  glide  along  the  plain—  like  princes 
who  see  from  far  the  aerial  spires  dreaming  over  the 
sleeping  beauty — suddenly,  as  if  we  heard  the  cool 
measures  of  Damascus  fountains  and  scented  its 
garden  odors,  we  plunged  forward  through  the  grain 
that  swayed  and  sang  around  us,  and  loud  shouting 
the  cry  of  the  gallopping  Arabs,  Es  sham,  shcrecf,  the 
beautiful,  the  blessed,  we  dashed  upon  the  full  run 
over  the  plain,  nor  paused  until  our  brows  were 
cooled  in  the  groves  of  Damascus. 

Then  we  stopped,  and  reining  up  by  a  broken 
and  greenly-mossed  fountain,  across  which  lay  a  bar 
of  gold-dusted  sunshine,  in  vision  returned  the  Sep- 
tember afternoon  under  the  grape  trellises  and  the 
figs  of  the  Italian  lake  of  Orta,  which  whispered, 
as  a  less  of  a  greater — Damascus. 

We  moved  slowly  on  over  the  broken  pavement, 
chiding  the  walls  that  enclosed  the  gardens.     But 


294  THE    nOWADJI    IN    SYEIA. 

their  beauty  would  not  be  confined,  and  overflowed 
upon  us,  and  arched  the  way,  and  softened  it  with 
strewn  leaves,  and  enchanted  the  light  into  a  soft, 
green  brilliancy,  and  teemed  with  promise  inexpres- 
sible. 

At  times  the  low  singing  of  unseen  water  thread* 
ed  the  air  as  with  faint  laughter,  laughing  all  the 
poets  to  sweet  scorn  who  had  described  Damascus. 
The  fig,  the  almond,  the  rounded  chestnut,  the  wal- 
nut, the  olive — all  the  stately  and  romantic  trees 
were  clustered  here,  as  if  the  absolute  aristocracy 
of  foliage  was  only  to  be  found  in  the  girdle  of  the 
most  ancient  and  the  most  beautiful  of  cities. 

The  path  was  a  narrow  lane  winding  between  the 
walls  that  separated  the  groves,  and  crossing  the 
clear-eyed  brooks  upon  ruinous  and  pretty  bridges. 
Across  the  vistas,  where  the  light  was  brightest, 
passed  women  with  water-jars  upon  their  heads,  or 
groups  of  shouting  children,  or  laden  camels  or  don- 
keys, or  single  figures  stood  in  gay  costumes — as  if  a 
generous  destiny  knew  that  only  that  figure  in  that 
spot  was  necessary  to  perfect  satisfaction. 

The  lane  ended  in  a  gate,  and  immediately  from 
the  spacious  and  picturesque  solitude  of  the  trees 
we  were  plunged  into  the  brilliant  bewilderment  of 
the  bazaar.  Golden  Sleeve  spurred  rapidly  along, 
and  we  were  obliged  to  follow  at  the  same  speed  to 


THE    EYE    OP    THE    EAST.  295 

keep  him  in  sight.  The  crowd  parted  before  ua 
like  a  phosphorescent  sea,  so  bright  were  the  flow- 
ing robes.  My  brain  reeled  with  the  abrupt  change 
from  the  luminous  green  silence  of  the  environs  to 
the  twilight  dimness  of  the  bazaar,  full  of  spicy 
odors,  and  gorgeous  colors,  and  various  forms,  che- 
quered with  the  penetrant  sunshine  that  fell  in 
burning  drops  through  rents  in  the  overshadowing 
matting. 

There  was  scarcely  time  to  see,  none  to  think* 
We  had  constantly  to  keep  vanishing  Golden  Sleeve 
in  sight,  nor  did  I  lose  him  but  once,  when  I  saw 
cheesecakes — cheesecakes  in  Damascus !  and  won- 
dering if  they  were  made  without  pepper,  I  was 
bending  to  ask  Agib,  wdio  was  looking  intently  at 
me,  when  I  saw  Leisurlie  just  disappearing,  and 
hurried  rapidly  after  him,  lest  I  should  be  implicated 
before  the  Grand  Vizier,  as  an  accessory  to  the  manu- 
facture of  illegal  cheesecakes. 

Dazzled  and  overwhelmed  by  this  first  swift  glance, 
I  felt  that  Damascus  was  the  most  eastern  East  we 
had  reached.  The  sunny  desert  and  lonely  Syria 
had  erased  from  memory  the  West  that  still  lingers 
in  Cairo  contaminated  with  black  hats  and  carriages. 
Damascus  was  on  the  way  to  no  Christian  province 
and  western  trade  had  therefore  not  purged  it  of 
virgin  picturesqueness.     It  was  the  sacred  point  of 


296  THE    HOWADJl    IN    SYRIA. 

departure  for  the  Mecca  caravan,  and  the  port  of 
caravans  from  Bagdad. 

And  when  Golden  Sleeve  reined  up  and  said — 

"  This  is  the  hotel." 

I  responded — 

"  Alla-hu-ak-har,  (God  is  great)." 


II. 

EXIT  VERDE  GIOVANE. 

The  superb  Syrian  calls  Damascus  Om-el-Vonm^ 
the  mother  of  the  world.  Nor  is  the  traveller's 
fealty  to  Damascus  disloyalty  to  Cairo.  A  poet, 
who  sat  in  a  cafe,  tasting  sherbet  and  singing,  over 
the  gurgling  water,  a  song,  which  Golden  Sleeve 
interpreted,  sang — '*  0  Damascus,  O  pearl  of  the 
East."     But  it  is  a  crimson-hearted  carbuncle  rather. 

The  Damascene  is  the  most  mischievous  subject 
of  the  empire,  says  the  Turk.  He  is  the  most 
eastern  of  orientals,  says  the  Frank.  Not  only,  like 
other  Muslim,  does  he  guard  his  wife  with  jealousy, 
but,  with  the  same  care,  he  hides  the  splendor  of  the 
house  in  which  she  lives. 

In  the  dim,  unpaven,  silent  streets  of  Cairo,  the 
high  latticed  house-fronts  wear  a  picturesque  charm, 
and  woo  you,  as  I  have  said,  with  more  than  Mus- 
lim propriety.  But  the  paved  streets,  walled  with 
low  houses  of  coarse,  yellow  plaster,  are  ugly  and 
forbidding  in  Damascus;  nor  is  the  city  properly 

beautiful  and  characteristic,  except  in  the  bazaars, 
13* 


29S  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

which  are  unimaginable,  and  in  the  cafes,  whithet 
we  will  presently  go. 

Our  own  house,  the  hotel,  was  characteristic. 
The  great  street  door  opened  by  a  narrow  passage 
into  a  tessellated  marble  court,  glistening  with 
orange  foliage,  and  musical  with  fountains.  A  ga- 
zelle played  upon  the  pavements,  upon  which  opened 
a  lofty  arabesqued  alcove,  and  our  own  room  oppo- 
site. From  a  marble  basin  upon  the  chequered  mar- 
ble floor  of  our  room,  leaped  a  delicate  fountain,  and 
three  recesses  were  raised  around  it,  each  separated 
by  curtains  from  the  common  floor,  and  each  serving 
as  a  bed-chamber. 

In  the  court,  as  we  entered,  the  Syrian  sun  adorn- 
ing him,  and  set  in  all  the  romance  of  mid-Damas- 
cus, stood  Verde  Giovane. 

I  regarded  him  gratefully,  although  I  could  scarce- 
ly^forgive  his  scornful  glance  at  me,  when  I  sat, 
soaped,  in  the  bath  at  Asyoot,  upon  the  Nile.  But 
Verde  had  so  amply  supplied  me  with  the  fun,  the 
want  of  which,  and  that  of  music,  are  the  traveller's 
great  wants  in  the  East,  that  I  buried  all  feud.  I 
remember — as  a  man  the  figure  of  the  waistcoat  he 
wore  upon  his  wedding  day — that  smooth,  round, 
English  face  in  the  Damascus  sunshine,  the  face 
whose  placidity  seemed  to  say,  "  0  East !  vainly 
you  strive  to  surprise  me.     Have  I  not  given  dejeu- 


EXIT    VERDE    GIOVANE.  299 

ners  at  Philae ;  have  I  not  gracefully  dallied  at  Esne  ; 
have  I  not  jostled  on  a  camel  over  the  desert,  and 
am  I  not  now  here,  in  very  Damascus,  persuaded 
that  the  whole  business  is  not  jolly,  but  slow — that 
in  vain  your  oriental  silence  will  aim  to  drown  the 
sound  of  Bow-bells  in  my  heart?" 

I  do  not  remember  Verde  distinctly  again.  But 
some  vague  reminiscence  haunts  my  mind,  of  a 
figure  with  a  felt  hat,  a  white  cotton  turban,  and  a 
check  shooting-coat,  rushing  up  and  down  the  hotel 
stairs  at  Beyrout,  apparently  knocking  at  every 
door  and  shouting  to  the  inmates — for  there  are  no 
newspapers  in  Beyrout  to  record  arrivals  and  de- 
partures— '*  Good-by,  Smith ;  good-by,  Jones.  I'm 
just  off  for  Aleppo." 

Images  of  gay  cavaliers  bounding  from  their  la- 
dies' bowers  rose  in  my  mind,  I  remember,  as  I 
heard  those  farewells ;  and  I  leaned,  romantic,  from 
the  balcony — to  see  the  felt  hat,  and  white  turban, 
and  check  apparel,  surmounting  a  jaded  beast,  and 
following  a  train  of  pack-horses  slowly  around  the 
corner. 

And  so  with  oriental  slowness,  if  not  stateliness, 
the  good  little  Verde  Giovane  rode  out  of  Beyrout, 
and  out  of  history. 


III. 

THE   HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL. 

Are  you  disappointed  as  you  thread  these  streets, 
by  these  repulsive  walls  ?  Do  you  tremble  lest  the 
dream  of  Damascus  be  dissolved  by  Damascus  it- 
self? 

But  you  have  already  learned,  by  pleasant  ex- 
perience, that  the  clumsy,  black,  forbidding  bal- 
loons, which  passed  you  in  those  Cairene  streets, 
snveloped  Cairene  wives,  and  were  thus  only  the 
coarse  rind  of  Hesperidian  fruit.  Such,  too,  are  the 
Damascus  houses. 

O  little  faith!  each  Damascus  house  is  a  para- 
dise The  streets  know  only  the  exterior  of  the 
outer  walls,  and  forbid  to  the  passenger  even  the 
suspicion  of  beauty.  Happily  for  us  and  for  you, 
there  is  a  Jew  in  Damascus — and  may  his  tribe  in- 
crease— who  is  a  St.  Peter,  and  holds  the  keys  of 
many  heavens. 

He  led  us  to  the  true  House  Beautiful,  a  dream 
palace,  one  of  those  which  we  frequent,  when  we 
are  children,  with  caliphs  and  ladies.     Such  a  dwell- 


THE    HOUSE    BEAUTIFUL.  301 

irig  as  you  must  needs  fancy  when  you  look  through 
Lane's  illustrated  Arabian  Nights,  as  through  the 
mind  of  an  Arabian  poet,  arabesqued  with  dreamy 
fancies — such  a  pavilion  as  Tennyson  has  built  in 
music  for  Haroun  El  Rashid. 

We  turned  suddenly  from  the  unpromising  street 
into  a  court,  in  whose  centre  played  a  fountain,  sur- 
rounded with  orange-trees,  and  from  one  side  of  which 
ascended  a  lofty  staircase  to  a  gallery  overlooking 
the  court.  The  orange-trees  threw  rich  mosaics  of 
shadow  upon  the  pavement,  and  groups  of  men  sat 
around,  smoking  tranquilly,  as  if  they  were  only 
part  of  the  furniture  of  the  scene.  Among  them 
v/ere  Druse  emirs  from  the  Lebanon  :  princes  not 
princely  enough  to  be  admitted  into  the  inner  de- 
lights. 

"  It  is  a  perfected  Seville,"  said  Leisurlie,  as  we 
passed  on  and  entered  the  inner  court. 

There,  for  the  first  time,  I  felt  the  just  instinct 
of  the  Prophet  in  painting  his  Paradise  from  the 
materials  furnished  by  the  genius  which  he  and 
the  Easterns  knew.  The  scene  was  a  poem  set 
to  music.  The  light  of  the  opaline  day  streamed 
into  the  spacious  court  as  into  a  vase  worthy 
of  it.  A  large  marble  reservoir  occupied  the  cen- 
tre of  the  space,  into  which  fountains  of  fairy  de- 
vice poured  humming  rills  of  water.     The  pave- 


302  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

ment  was  tessellated  marble,  polished  to  a  glow 
Huge  pots  of  flowers  stood  near  the  walls,  that 
blazed  with  all  the  brilliancy  of  positive  color,  and 
glistening,  trailing,  and  blossoming  plants  were 
ranged  along  the  marble-margined  fountain.  Ivoses, 
lemons,  and  orange-trees,  grouped  their  foliage, 
clustered  their  flowers,  and  perfumed  the  sun 

The  light  was  not  a  glare,  but  a  thick,  odorous 
luminousness  dashed  with  the  cool  dusk  of  shadows 
from  the  trees.  Gazelles  stood  and  ran  in  the  court, 
filling  the  sunny  bliss  with  the  most  delicate  grace 
of  life  ;  and,  among  the  fragrant  trees,  birds  sang — 
why  not  the  bul-bul,  dying  a  melodious  rose-death 
to  crown  our  joy  ? 

From  the  end  of  the  court  a  broad,  lofty  stair- 
case, with  elaborately  wrought  balusters,  ascended 
to  a  galleried  recess,  before  wliich  hung  a  vine  of 
passion-flowers  in  blossom,  transfigured  in  light,  a 
tapestry  of  Paradise,  and  touching  the  pavement 
below,  it  trailed  languidly  upon  the  glossy  mar- 
ble. 

Slightly  raised  from  the  level  of  the  court,  and 
entirely  open  to  it,  were  alcoves  loftily-arched,  car- 
peted, and  divanned  with  luxurious  stuffs.  The 
sides  and  ceilings  of  the  alcoves  were  painted  in 
dreamy  arabesque.  There  are  two  kinds  of  ara- 
besque in  these  houses — one  is  pannelled,  carved  in 


THE    HOUSE    BEAUTIFUL.  303 

wood,  and  so  elaborately  gilded  that  the  effect  is  of 
a  tapestry  of  the  richest  camel's  hair  shawls.  The 
other  is  flat  painting — the  modern  method — gay- 
er and  brighter,  but  not  so  deeply  rich  and  deli- 
cate. The  former  usually  surrounds  the  base  of 
the  alcove  or  apartment.  But  the  latter  haunts 
the  depths  of  the  upper  walls  and  the  ceiling  with 
suggestions  as  subtle  as  the  melody  of  Eastern 
verse. 

The  rooms  opened  into  the  largest  alcove.  They 
were  quite  empty  and  resembled  grottoes,  with 
their  marble  pavements,  and  mosaics  of  colored 
marble  in  the  wall,  and  at  the  farther  end  a  raised 
dais,  spread  with  lounges  where,  under  the  ara- 
besques, and  in  the  sound  of  the  falling  water,  the 
women  lay  in  voluptuous  repose,  crusted  with  jew- 
els and  completing  the  Paradise. 


IV. 
HOURIS. 

*'  The  night  shall  be  filled  with  music. 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away." 

Such  beautiful  women  we  saw. 

Not,  of  course,  the  Muslim  wives,  but  Hebrews, 
whose  beauty  is  more  imperial. 

Many  of  the  finest  houses  in  Damascus  are  those 
of  Jews,  who  cling  there  as  they  do  everywhere 
else,  although  they  occasionally  suffer  persecutions 
of  relentless  severity.  There  are  about  five  thou 
sand  Jews  in  Damascus,  and  they  are  often  the  chief 
financial  officers  of  the  Turkish  government.  They 
live  in  a  quarter  of  the  city  by  themselves,  and  as 
we  left  the  shabby  street  and  entered  the  courts  of 
their  houses,  those  chapters  of  old  romance  which 
relate  the  hidden  luxury  of  the  Hebrews,  returned 
to  my  mind  and  were  justified. 

The  best  of  these  houses  have  two  courts — three 
alcoves  opening  upon  the  inner  one.  Their  roman> 
tic  beauty  can  hardly  be   imparted  by  any  desciip- 


HOURIS  305 

tion,  nor  do  I  know  any  pictures  which  fairly  repre- 
sent it.  The  Syrian  light  has  not  yet  been  caught 
upon  the  palette,  and  without  that,  the  gorgeous- 
ness  of  the  impression  is  lost. 

These  fountained  and  foliaged  interiors,  hushed  in 
the  warm  blue  silence  of  that  sky,  forever  suggest 
a  luxurious  and  poetic  life.  They  suggest  it  so  ab- 
solutely and  strongly,  that  a  child  of  the  West  con- 
templates them,  fascinated,  indeed,  but  frightened,  as 
if  it  were  wrong  to  follow,  even  in  fancy,  the  out- 
line they  draw  upon  the  possibilities  of  life.  Dream- 
ing by  the  singing  waters,  or  reclining  upon  the 
sumptuous  divans  in  the  alcoves,  the  most  Christian 
of  Howadji,  as  he  awaits  the  Houris,  hears  his  heart 
repeating  the  mournful  words  of  the  Prophet — 
*'  There  can  be  but  one  Paradise,  and  mine  must  not 
be  here !" 

Yet,  as  we  lay,  those  May  mornings,  watching  the 
gazelles,  a  year's  life  in  Damascus  promised  the 
completest  romance  that  the  experience  of  this 
time  could  afford. 

There  would  be  no  society — for  technical  *'  socie- 
ty" is  unknown  in  the  East— and  no  impulse  from 
the  magnetic  '•  spirit  of  the  age."  But  all  the  rest 
could  be  supplied. 

You  would  hear  the  hum  of  the  West  dying 
awav  over   the  Mediterranean,  into  an  incredible 


30G  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

echo.  Its  remembered  forms  would  glide,  pban- 
toras,  across  the  luxurious  repose  of  existence.  Zeno 
Would  dwindle  into  a  myth,  modern  times  into  a 
dream,  and  the  fancied  life  of  Epicurus  would  be 
the  shadow  of  your  own.  Had  Epicurus  no  reason  ? 
Was  the  legend  cf  the  lotus-eaters  all  a  fable  ?  Is 
the  unimaginable  imagery  of  opium-dreams  not 
worth  the  seeing  ? 

— Self-indulgent,  wasteful,  selfish,  coward  before 
the  tyrannous  realities  of  life — these  are  the  re- 
proaches that  would  disturb  your  dream. 

Yet  would  I  still  exhort  him  who  sincerely  loves 
the  lotus  and  thrives  upon  it — for  such  there  are — 
to  dream  that  year  in  Damascus.  For  would  he 
then  return,  and  paint  that  year  for  us,  the  dream 
would  be  justified  and  celebrated  in  pictures  and 
songs. 

Let  Zeno  frown.  Philosophy,  common  sense, 
and  resignation,  are  but  synonyms  of  submission  to 
the  inevitable.  I  dream  my  dream.  Men  whose 
hearts  are  broken,  and  whose  faith  falters,  discover 
that  life  is  a  warfare,  and  chide  the  boy  for  loitering 
along  the  sea-shore,  and  loving  the  stars. 

But  leave  him,  inexorable  elders,  in  the  sweet  en- 
tanglement of  the  "  trailing  clouds  of  glory"  with 
which  he  comes  into  the  world.  Have  no  fear  that 
they  will  remain  and  dim  his  sight.     Those  morning 


UOURIS.  307 

vapors  fade  away — you  have  learned  it.  And  they 
will  leave  him  chilled,  philosophical,  and  resigned,  in 
"  the  light  of  common  day" — you  have  proved  it.  But 
do  not  starve  him  to-day,  because  he  will  have  no 
dinner  to-morrow.  Like  a  poor  country  lad  who 
must  go  out  to  service  in  the  dim  and  treacherous 
city,  you  will  not  suffer  him  to  follow  the  water- 
courses, and  know  the  flowers,  and  the  sky,  and  the 
mountain  landscape,  in  his  first  few  years,  lest  their 
sublime  memory  should  seduce  him  from  his  work, 
or  sadden  him  in  its  doing.  But  the  profoundest 
thinkers  of  you  all,  have  discovered  that  an  inscru- 
table sadness  is  the  widest  horizon  of  life,  and  the 
longing  eye  is  more  sympathetic  with  nature,  than 
the  shallow  stare  of  practical  scepticism  of  truth 
and  beauty. 

But  while  we  muse,  the  ladies  have  entered  the 
court — the  family  of  a  Jewish  merchant,  friend  of 
our  St.  Peter — a  mother  and  three  daughters. 

The  mother  is  fat,  and  covered  with  brocades  and 
cloths  of  gold,  with  bracelets,  and  necklaces,  and 
rings,  and  her  head  is  actually  crusted  with  opals, 
pearls,  rubies,  carbuncles,  and  amethysts.  She  looks, 
as  she  stands  in  the  sun,  and  conscious  of  the  splen- 
dor of  her  appearance,  as  if  she  had  just  emerged 
from  the  bazaars,  in  which  every  merchant  had 
thrown  his  choicest  treasures  at  her  as  she  passed 


308  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYKIA. 

There  is  neither  grace  nor  taste  in  her  appearance. 
It  is  only  an  accumulation  of  riches  in  every  kind, 
but  each  so  genuine  and  magnificent,  that  the  eye 
is  satisfied. 

She  is  not  handsome,  but  her  daughters  are. 
They  are  tall  and  willowy,  and  stand  among  the 
oranges  and  oleanders,  looking  gravely  at  us.  They 
have  wreaths  of  pearls,  and  embroidered  vests,  and 
thick  skirts  heavy  with  richness,  and  they  all  walk 
upon  pattens  four  or  five  inches  high,  of  ebony 
inhiid  with  pearl,  so  that,  in  moving,  they  stalk 
about  the  court  like  giraffes  imperfectly  humanized. 
Their  hair  is  densely  black,  and  is  braided  in  mas 
sive  folds,  studded  with  gems.  Their  eyebrows 
are  shaved,  and  a  smooth  black  arch  of  kohl 
supplies  their  places,  and  helps  to  unhumanize 
them.  They  are  beautiful  without  the  effect  of 
beauty.  The  dark  eyes  are  soft  and  curious,  but 
have  no  lambent  light  of  sympathy  or  intelligence. 
I  should  as  soon  undertake  conversation  with  the 
black  marble  Venus,  as  with  these  silent  and  stately 
figures ;  and  it  is  hard  to  bring  my  mind  to  the 
conception  of  their  total  ignorance  and  inexperi- 
ence. 

—The  scene  was  like  a  Sultan's  slave-market,  and 
on  the  whole,  rather  sadder  than  my  remembrance 
of  a  slave-merchant's  house  in  Cairo.      He  had  just 


HOURIS.  309 

received  several  Abyssinian  girls  for  sale.  They 
stood,  coarsely  clad,  and  clustering  togethei**,  in  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  court — a  group  of  olive-skin- 
ned children,  who  laughed  at  the  strangers,  and 
chatted  among  themselves,  evidently  hoping  to  be 
bought,  and  to  taste  the  incomprehensible  life  of 
Christian  Howadji. 

The  Damascene  ladies  withdrew  after  we  had  ex- 
changed some  words  with  the  placid  mamma,  and 
presently,  we  saw  them  hurrying  along  the  gallery 
above,  chattering  and  laughing,  like  the  Abyssinians, 
and  looking  down  upon  us  as  we  retired,  with  the 
curiosity  of  children. 

And,  as  we  retired,  the  painful  impression  of  their 
utterly  vacant  life  was  relieved  by  that  girlish 
laughter. 


V. 

BAZAARS. 

"  Black  spirits  and  white, 
Blue  spirits  and  gray, 

Mingle,  mingle,  mingle." 

Christians  and  Saracens  agree  in  reprobating  the 
black  hat.  But  the  Damascenes  declare  open  war 
against  it.  In  1432,  Bertrandon  de  la  Brocquiere 
entered  the  city  with  a  "  broad  beaver  hat,"  w^hich 
was  incontinently  knocked  off  his  head.  Naturally, 
his  first  movement  was  "  to  lift  my  fist,"  but  wis- 
dom held  his  hand,  and  he  desisted,  content  to  re- 
venge himself  by  the  questional  inference  that  it 
was  "  a  wicked  race." 

But  if  it  be  *'  wicked"  to  malign  the  black  hat 
who  shall  be  justified? 

This  was  only  a  gentle  illustration  of  the  bitter 
hatred  of  Christians  and  all  infidels,  cherished  by 
the  Damascenes,  who  are  the  most  orthodox  of 
Muslim.  Indeed,  it  is  only  within  twenty  years 
that  an  accredited  English  representative  could 
reside  in  Damascus,  and  he  maintains  an  imposing 
state.     At  present,  some  hundred  European  tourists 


BAZ 


rCTNIVERSITYJ 
A  A  RW.^iFORNVAt.--^ll 


visit  the  city  yearly,  and  the  devout  faithful  find 
reasons  for  toleration  in  infidel  gold,  which  they 
never  found  in  argument. 

Here,  too,  as  everywhere  in  Syria,  Ibrahim  Paclia 
has  l)een  our  ^\\y.  He  permitted  infidels  to  ride 
horses  through  the  streets. 

"  O  Allah !"  exclaimed  the  religious  Damascenes, 
who  are  termed  by  the  Turks  Shaini-Shoumi — cursed 
rascals.  "  Your  highness  suffers  Christians  to  sit 
as  high  as  the  faithful." 

"  No,  my  friends,"  responded  Ibrahim,  "  you  shall 
ride  dromedaries,  which  will  put  you  much  above 
them." 

We  went  into  the  bazaars  to  encounter  these  ene- 
mies of  the  black  hat,  and  ex-officlo  riders  of  drome- 
daries. We  had  a  glimpse  of  their  beauty  as  we 
entered  the  city.  But  Eastern  life  is  delightful  in 
detail.     It  is  a  mosaic  to  be  closely  studied. 

You  enter,  and  the  murmurous  silence  blends 
pleasantly  with  the  luminous  dimness  of  the  place. 
The  matting  overhead,  torn  and  hanging  in  strips, 
along  which,  gilding  them  in  passing,  the  sun  slides 
into  the  interior,  is  a  heavy  tapestry.  The  scene  is 
a  perpetual  fair,  not  precisely  like  Greenwich  fair, 
or  that  of  the  American  Institute,  but  such  as  you 
frequent  in  Arabian  stories. 

Bedoueen  glide  spectrally  along,  with  wild  roving 


312  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

eyes,  like  startled  deer.  Insane  dervishes  and  san- 
tons  meditate  the  propriety  of  braining  the  infidel 
Howadji.  Shekhs  from  distant  Asia,  pompous 
effendi  from  Constantinople,  Bagdad  traders,  cun- 
ning-eyed Armenian  merchants  meet  and  mingle, 
and  many  of  our  old  friends,  the  grizzly-bearded, 
red-eyed  fire-worsI:;ippers,  somnolently  curled  among 
their  goods,  eye  us,  through  the  smoke  they  emit, 
as  perfect  specimens  of  the  proper  sacrifice  they 
owe  their  deity.  All  strange  forms  jostle  and  crowd 
in  passing,  except  those  which  are  familiar ;  and 
children,  more  beautiful  than  any  in  the  East,  play 
in  the  living  mazes  of  the  crowd. 

Shopping  goes  actively  on.  The  merchant,  with- 
out uncrossing  his  legs,  exhibits  his  silks  and  coarse 
cottons  to  the  long  draped  and  veiled  figures  that 
group  picturesquely  about  his  niche.  Your  eye 
seizes  the  bright  effect  of  all  the  gay  goods  as  you 
saunter  on.  Here  a  merchant  lays  by  his  chi- 
bouque, and  drinks  from  a  carved  glass  sweet  liquorice 
water,  cooled  with  snow  from  Lebanon.  Here  one 
closes  his  niche  and  shuffles  off  to  the  mosque,  follow- 
ed by  his  boy  slave  with  the  chibouque.  Here 
another  rises,  and  bows,  and  flills,  kissing  the  floor, 
and  muttering  the  noon  prayer.  Everywhere  there 
is  intense  but  languid  life. 

The  bazaars  are  separated  into  kinds.     That  of 


BAZAARS.  313 

the  jewellers  in  enclosed,  and  you  see  the  Jews, 
swarthy  and  keen-eyed  servants  of  Mammon,  busily 
at  work.  Precious  stones  miserably,  set,  and  hands- 
full  of  pearls,  opals,  and  turquoises  are  quietly  pre- 
sented to  your  inspection.  There  is  no  eagerness 
of  traffic.  A  boy  tranquilly  hands  you  a  ring,  and 
another,  when  you  have  looked  at  the  first.  You 
say  "  la.,'"  no,  and  he  retires. 

Or  you  pause  over  a  clumsy  silver  ring,  with  an 
Arabic  inscription  upon  the  flint  set  in  it.  Golden 
Sleeve  ascertains  that  it  is  the  cypher  of  Hafiz.  You 
reflect  that  it  is  silver,  which  is  the  orthodox  metal, 
the  Prophet  having  forbidden  gold.  You  place  it 
upon  your  finger  with  the  stone  upon  the  inside; 
for  so  the  Prophet  wore  his  upon  the  fore-finger, 
that  he  might  avoid  ostentation.  It  is  a  quaint, 
characteristic,  oriental  signet-ring.  Hafiz  is  a  com- 
mon name,  it  is  probably  that  of  the  jeweller  who 
owns  the  ring.  But  you  have  other  associations 
with  the  name,  and  as  you  remember  the  Persian 
poet,  you  suffer  it  to  remain  upon  your  finger,  and 
pay  the  jeweller  a  few  piastres.  You  do  not  dream 
that  it  is  enchanted.  You  do  not  know  that  you 
have  bought  Aladdin's  lamp,  and  as  a  rub  of  that 
evoked  omnipotent  spirits,  so  a  glance  at  your  ring, 
when  Damascus  has  become  a  dream,  will  restore 

you  again  to  the  dim  bazaar,  and  the  soft  eyes  of 
14 


314  THE    HOWADJI    IN   SYKIA. 

the  children  that  watch  you  curiously  as  you  hesitate, 
and  to  the  sweet  inspiration  of  Syria. 

You  pass  on  into  the  quarter  where  the  pattens 
are  made,  inlaid  with  pearl,  such  as  you  remarked 
upon  the  feet  of  the  kohl-eyebrowed  houris.  Into 
the  shoemakers,  where  the  brilliant  leathers  justify 
better  poetry  than  Hans  Sach's  interminable  rhymes 
though  here  is  only  their  music,  not  their  moral. 
You  climb  crumbling  steps,  and  emerge  from  dark- 
ness upon  the  top  of  the  bazaar,  on  a  ledge  of  a 
Roman  ruin,  and  look  down  into  the  sunny  green- 
ness of  the  great  mosque,  which  you  cannot  more 
nearly  approach.  Then  down,  and  by  all  the  beau- 
tiful fabrics  of  the  land,  hung  with  the  tin  foiled 
letters  that  surround  pieces  of  English  prints,  and 
which  the  color-loving  eye  of  the  oriental  seizes  as 
an  ornament  for  his  own  wares,  you  pass  into  the 
region  of  drugs  and  apothecaries,  and  feel  that  you 
are  about  visiting  that  Persian  doctor  in  Mecca  who 
dealt  in  nothing  but  miraculous  balsams  and  infal- 
lible elixirs,  whose  potions  were  all  sweet  and  agree- 
able, and  the  musk  and  aloe-wood  which  he  burned, 
diffused  a  delicious  odor  through  the  shop.  Surely 
he  was  court-physician  to  Zobeide. 

Golden  Sleeve  pauses  before  an  old  figure  curled 
among  the  bottles  and  lost  in  reverie,  saturated,  it 
seems,  with  opium,  and  dreaming  its  dreams.     This 


BAZAARS.  315 

is  Zobeide's  doctor.  He  had  evidently  the  elixir  of 
life  among  those  sweet  potions,  and  has  deeply 
drunk.  Life  he  has  preserved ;  but  little  else  that 
is  human  remains,  except  the  love  that  is  stronger 
than  life.  For,  as  he  opens  his  vague  eyes  and  be 
holds  us,  they  kindle  w^ith  an  inward  fire,  as  if  they 
looked  upon  the  philosopher's  stone.  That  stone 
is  in  our  purses ;  the  old  magician  knows  it,  and  he 
knows  the  charm  to  educe  it. 

He  opens  a  jar,  and  a  dreamy  odor  penetrates  our 
brains.  It  is  distilled  of  flowers  culled  from  the 
gardens  of  the  Ganges  :  or  is  this  delicate  perfume 
preferable — this  zatta,  loved  of  poets  and  houris, 
which  came  to  the  doctor's  grandfather  from  Bag- 
dad ? 

Attar  of  roses  did  Golden  Sleeve  suggest  ?  Here 
is  the  essence  of  that  divinest  distillation  of  the  very 
heart  of  summer.  But,  0  opulent  Howadji!  no 
thin,  pale,  Constantinople  perfume  is  this,  but  the 
viscous  richness  of  Indian  roses.  As  many  wide 
acres  of  bloom  went  to  this  jar  as  to  any  lyric  of 
Hafiz.  It  lies  as  molten  gold  in  the  quaint  glass 
vase.  The  magician  holds  it  toward  the  Syrian 
sun,  and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  darkens  over  his 
withered  features.  Then,  drop  by  drop,  as  if  he 
poured  the  last  honey  that  should  ever  be  hived 
from  Hymettus,  he  suffer  it  to  exude  into  the  little 


316  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

vials.  They  are  closely  stopped,  and  sealed,  and 
wrapped  in  cotton.  And  some  wintry  Christmas 
in  the  West  the  Howadji  shall  offer  to  a  fairer  than 
Zobeide  those  more  than  drops  of  diamond. 

Nor  this  alone — but  the  cunning  of  Arabian  art 
has  sucked  the  secret  of  their  sweetness  from  tea 
and  coffee,  from  all  the  wild  herbs  of  Syria,  and 
from  amber.  In  those  small  jars  is  stored  the  rich 
result  of  endless  series  of  that  summer  luxuriance 
you  saw  in  the  vale  of  Zabulon.  Sandal-wood  to 
burn  upon  your  nargileh,  mystic  bits  to  lay  upon 
your  tongue,  so  that  the  startled  Bedoueen,  as  you 
pass  in  the  bazaar,  and  breathe  upon  him  in  passing, 
dreams  that  you  came  from  paradise,  and  have  been 
kissed  by  houris. 

Was  it  not  the  magic  to  draw  from  your  purse 
the  philosopher's  stone  ?  The  court-physician  of 
Zobeide,  relapsing  into  reverie,  smiles  vaguely  as 
he  says  salaam  ;  as  if  the  advantage  were  his—as  if 
you  were  not  bearing  away  with  you  in  those  odors 
the  triumphs  of  the  rarest  alchemy. 

Breathing  fragrance,  you  enter  a  khan  opening 
upon  the  bazaar,  that  of  Assad  Pacha,  a  stately  and 
beautiful  building,  consisting  of  a  lofty  domed  court, 
the  dome  supported  by  piers,  with  a  gallery  running 
quite  around  it.  Private  rooms  for  the  choicest 
goods  open  out  of  the  gallery.     The  court  is  full  of 


BAZAARS.  317 

various  merchandise,  and  merchants  from  every 
region  sit  by  their  goods,  and  smoke  placidly  as 
they  negotiate.  * 

But  we  have  received  visits  in  our  hotel  from  an 
Armenian  merchant,  young  and  comely — why  not 
Khadra's  cousin  ? — and  he  brought  with  him  silks  and 
stuffs  at  which  all  that  was  feminine  in  our  natures 
swelled  with  delight.  Tempted  by  his  odors,  we 
have  come  to  this  garden.  The  room  is  small  and 
square,  and  rough-plastered.  Upon  the  floor  are 
strewn  long  deep  boxes,  and  the  comely  young  Ar- 
menian, in  a  flowing  dark  dress,  reveals  his  treasures. 

Scarfs,  shawls,  stuffs  for  dresses,  morning-gowns 
and  vests,  handkerchiefs,  sashes,  purses,  and  tobacco- 
bags  are  heaped  in  rich  profusion.  They  are  of  the 
true  eastern  richness,  and  in  the  true  eastern  man- 
ner they  rely  upon  that  richness  for  their  effect,  and 
not  upon  their  intrinsic  tastefulness.  The  figures 
of  the  embroideries,  for  instance,  are  not  gracefully 
designed,  but  the  superb  material  suffices.  They 
imply  that  there  are  none  but  beautiful  w^omen  in 
the  world,  and  that  all  women  are  brunettes.  As 
the  quiet  merchant  unfolds  them,  they  have  the 
mysterious  charm  of  recalling  all  the  beautiful  bru- 
nettes who  have  reigned,  Zenobias,  and  Queens  of 
Sheba,  and  Cleopatras,  in  the  ruined  realm  of  your 
past  life. 


318  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

But,  Northerners  and  Westerners,  we  remember 
another  beauty.  We  remember  Palma  Vechio's 
golden-haired  daughter,  and  the  Venetian  pictures, 
and  the  stories  of  angels  with  sunny  locks,  and  the 
radiant  Preziosa.  The  astute  Armenian  knows  our 
thoughts.  From  the  beginning  was  not  the  orien- 
tal merchant  a  magician? 

For  while  we  sit  smoking  and  delighted,  the  mer- 
chant, no  less  wily  than  the  court-physician  of 
Zobeide,  opens  the  last  box  of  all,  and  gradually  un- 
folds the  most  beautiful  garment  the  Howadji  have 
ever  seen.  The  coronation  robes  of  emperors  and 
kings,  the  most  sumptuous  costumes  at  court-festi- 
vals, all  the  elaboration  of  western  genius  in  the 
material  and  in  the  making  of  dresses,  pale  and 
disappear  before  the  simple  magnificence  of  this 
robe. 

It  is  a  bournouse  or  oriental  cloak,  made  of  cam- 
el's hair  and  cloth  of  gold.  The  material  secures 
that  rich  stiffness  essential  in  a  superb  mantle,  and 
the  color  is  an  azure  turquoise,  exquisite  beyond 
words.  The  sleeves  are  cloth  of  gold,  and  the 
edges  are  wrought  in  gold,  but  with  the  most  regal 
taste.  It  is  the  only  object  purely  tasteful  that  we 
have  seen.  Nor  is  it  of  that  safety  of  taste,  which 
loves  dark  carriages  and  neutral  tints  in  dress,  but 
magnificent  and  imperial,  like  that  of  Rachel  when 


BAZAARS.  319 

she  plays  Thisbe,  and  nets  her  head  with  Venetian 
sequins.  If  the  rest  imply  that  all  women  are  beau- 
tiful and  brunettes,  this  proclaims  the  one  superb 
blonde,  queen  of  them  all. 

"  Take  that,  Leisurlie,  it  was  intended  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world  for  an  English  beauty." 

"Oh!  kooltooluk!  there  is  not  a  woman  in  Eng- 
land who  could  wear  it." 

Through  the  dewy  distances  of  memory,  as  you 
muse  in  the  dim  chamber  upon  all  who  might 
worthily  wear  that  garment,  passes  a  figure  perfect 
as  morning,  crowned  with  youth,  and  robed  in 
grace,  for  whose  image  Alpine  snows  were  purer 
and  Italian  skies  more  soft.  But  even  while  you 
muse  it  passes  slowly  away  out  of  the  golden  gates 
of  possibility  into  the  wide  impossible. 

As  we  stroll  leisurely  homeward,  it  is  early  after- 
noon. But  the  shops  are  closed — strange  silence 
and  desertion  reign  in  the  bazaars — a  few  dark  tur- 
banned  Christians  and  Jews  yet  linger,  and  a  few 
children  play. 

"  They  are  gone  to  the  cafes  and  gardens,"  says 
Golden  Sleeve. 

— And  we  follow  them. 


VI. 

CAFES. 

Not  only  the  interiors  and  the  bazaars  bewilder 
yon  in  Damascus. 

Everywhere  in  the  humming  gush  of  fountains, 
you  hear  the  low  musical  laughter  of  Undine.  Thus, 
through  the  heart  of  the  city,  the  cool  cedars  of 
Lebanon  sing  their  shade.  The  flashing  jets  in  the 
silent  and  sunny  courts,  like  winks  of  that  glancing 
spirit,  soothe  your  mind  long  before  you  suspect  the 
reason.  In  the  bazaars  and  chief  streets  that  laugh 
is  stifled,  but  when  you  turn  aside,  just  outside  the 
bazaars,  and  pass  beyond  the  gates,  you  are  on  the 
banks  of  the  Abana  and  Pharpar — rivers  of  Damas- 
cus. 

In  this  realm  of  water,  are  the  cafes,  of  which, 
sipping  a  petit  verre  in  the  Algerine  cafe,  upon  the 
Parisian  Boulevards  and  looking  at  the  Arab  women 
there,  some  Howadji  have  vaguely  dreamed.  But 
nothing  in  civilized  cities  reminds  you  of  these  re- 
sorts. They  are  open  spaces  upon  the  banks  of  the 
streams,  shielded  by  heavy  foliaged  trees,  from  the 


CAFES.  321 

sun,  and  secluded  entirely  from  any  noise  but  that 
of  rushing  water. 

The  finest  cafe  is  entered  through  a  large  room, 
whose  walls  are  striped  in  the  usual  manner,  and 
which  is  furnished  with  shabby  stools,  and  multi- 
tudes of  nargilehs,  chibouques,  and  glass  cups  for 
sherbet  and  coffee.  It  opens  into  a  cool,  green  se- 
clusion, through  which  shoots  a  flashing  stream, 
crossed  by  a  little  bridge. 

No  cafe  in  the  world,  elsewhere,  can  offer  a  luxu- 
ry so  exquisite.  In  the  hot  day  it  proffers  coolness 
and  repose.  We  sit  upon  the  little  bridge,  and 
through  the  massive  foliage  around  us,  catch  gleams 
of  the  color  upon  the  nearest  walls.  The  passion- 
ate sun  cannot  enter  unrestrained,  but  he  dashes 
his  splendor  against  the  trees,  and  they  distil  it  in 
flickering  drops  of  intense  brightness  upon  the 
smooth,  hard,  black  ground.  We  have  his  beauty 
but  not  his  blaze.  Supreme  luxury !  Even  the 
proud  sun  shall  help  to  cool  us  by  the  vivid  contrast 
of  the  flecks  of  his  light,  with  the  mellow  shadow 
in  which  we  sit. 

Beneath  leaps  the  swift  river,  gurgling  gladness 

as  it  shoots,  like  a  joyful  boy  in  running.     It  sweeps 

forever  around  an  old  greened   wall  below.     It  is 

forever  overhung  by  blossoming   figs,  and  waving 

vines  and  almonds,  which   bower  it  as  it  passes, 
14* 


322  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

far  overleaning  to  hear  its  forest  tales  of  Lebanon. 
Around  us  sit  figures  clad  in  rainbow  brilliance, 
which,  in  placing  there,  nature  has  preceded  art 
and  satisfied  imagination.  We  sip  sherbet  of  rosea 
or  smooth  Mocha  cofl^ee. 

— Nera!  It  is  the  fountained  kiosk  of  Damas- 
cus.— 

Yet  these  resorts,  with  all  their  shabby  stools  and 
coarse  matting,  convey  a  finer  sense  of  luxury  than 
any  similar  attempt  in  western  life.  In  view  of  the 
purpose  desired,  these  cafes  are  the  triumph  of  art, 
although  nothing  can  be  simpler  and  ruder  than  the 
whole  structure.  They  are  the  broadest  and  most 
obvious  strokes  in  the  adaptation  of  natural  advan- 
tages to  the  greatest  enjoyment.  Thu  streams  are 
as  wild  as  mountain  brooks,  the  trees  as  untrim- 
med  as  in  the  forest,  yet  the  combination  satis- 
fies the  strongest  desire  of  a  hot  climate — coolness 
and  repose.  These  resorts  are  the  country  serving 
the  city,  but  not  emasculated  of  its  original  charac- 
ter. It  serves  the  city  as  the  negro  slave  clad  in  his 
native  costume,  in  bright  trinkets  and  with  braided 
hair,  serves  the  citizen.  As  London  in  its  vast  parks 
secures  for  itself  the  crown  of  city  luxury,  namely, 
the  unchanged  aspect  of  fields  and  w^oods,  so  that 
awakening  upon  Regent's  Park,  you  shall  seem,  in 
the  lowing  and  tranquil  grazing  of  cattle,  and  in 


CAFES.  323 

the  singing  of  birds  in  the  morning  silence,  to  be  a 
hundred  miles  from  men  ;  so  is  it  here,  except  that 
here  is  the  golden  atmosphere  of  romance  and  of 
the  natural  picturesque.  But  the  London  parks  are 
only  pastoral  landscapes  hung  upon  the  city  walls. 
The  cafes  of  Damascus  are  passionate  poems.  It 
is  the  difference  between  a  mild-eyed  milkmaid  and 
the  swart  magnificence  of  Zenobia. 

The  best  western  suggestions  of  these  Damascus 
delights  are  those  German  gardens,  where  you  sit 
smoking  and  sipping  in  pleasant  arbors,  listening  to 
pleasant  music,  as  at  Nuremberg,  under  the  pictur- 
esque old  walls.  But  here  again  is  all  the  difference 
between  Albrecht  Diirer  and  Hafiz.  There  is  a  mark- 
ed vein  of  prose  in  everything  German.  The  cafes 
of  Damascus  are  pure  poetry. 

Damascus  in  this  regard  makes  Pans  poor.  The 
most  brilliant  cafes  of  the  Boulevards  are  only  ro- 
coco, and  artificial,  measured  by  this  natural  art. 
They  are  elaborated  a  merveille.  But  the  place  it- 
self differs  from  the  Damascene  type  not  less  than 
the  pretty  grisette,  in  her  piquant  perfection  of 
French  attire,  differs  from  the  loosely  robed,  and 
jewelled,  and  golden-complexioned  Syrian  woman, 
not  less  than  the  clarified  French  coffee  differs  from 
the  thick  richness  of  Mocha.  You  sit  upon  the 
broad,  gay  street  in  Paris  eating  ices  thicker  and 


324  THE    HOVVADJI    IN    SYRIA 

richer  than  those  of  the  East,  which  are  thin  and 
watery  like  snow,  watching  the  gaudy  equipages, 
the  staring  parvenu  houses,  the  hats,  coats,  bonnets 
and  dresses — all  the  bright  tinsel  of  Parisian  life — 
and  over  your  eager  mind,  like  a  lull  in  a  gusty  day, 
steals  the  vision  of  Damascus,  with  the  silent  cool- 
ness of  green  shadows,  and  the  gurgling  coolness  of 
rushing  streams. 

Art,  in  oriental  luxury,  is  only  the  hint  of  nature 
broadly  developed.  The  luxury  of  Paris  is  the  per- 
fection of  artificiality.  Nature  is  as  much  banished 
from  it  as  simple  instincts  and  natural  feeling  from 
Parisian  society.  From  the  Boulevards  your  eyes 
rise  to  the  calm  blue  sky,  with  wonder  and  insatiable 
longing.  It  hangs  over  the  city  like  the  long-suffer- 
ing grace  of  God  over  human  sin. 

But  as  we  sit  enchanted  by  the  gushing  w^aters  of 
Damascus,  and  anticipate  Paris,  as  full-hearted  boys 
the  heartlessness  of  manhood,  and  long  for  music, 
the  instinctive  complement  of  such  luxury,  even  as 
the  boy  sings  when  he  is  happiest,  we  are  made 
aware,  in  the  shrill  shriek  and  discord  of  the  Arabian 
instruments  and  voices,  of  the  imperfection  of  orien- 
tal luxury.  It  is  fragmentary,  and  not  complete. 
The  love  of  nature  in  an  oriental,  is  rather  an  animal 
instinct  than  a  spiritual  appreciation.  Hence  the 
universal  absence  of  what  we  call  taste,  which  does 


CAPES.  325 

not  imply  that  the  universal  appearance  of  richness 
in  the  East  is  positively  tasteless,  but  simply  un- 
worked  into  genuine  artistic  results.  The  effect  is 
is  often  that  of  the  finest  art.  But  the  difference,  as 
I  said,  is  that  of  a  palette  covered  with  rich  pig- 
ments and  a  brilliant  picture.  Yet  remember  how 
much  more  valuable  for  subtle  suggestion  is  Titian's 
palette  than  most  pictures  that  were  ever  painted. 

This  luxury  is  fragmentary  and  incomplete.  A 
Pacha  clad  in  the  costliest  robes,  and  smoking  a 
gemmed  chibouque,  receives  you  in  a  coarsely-plas- 
tered chamber,  where  you  recline  upon  cushions 
which  no  Parisian  salon  possesses.  Or  in  these  fine 
Damascus  houses,  between  the  ceiling  wrought  in 
dream-arabesques,  and  the  delicate  point-lace-like 
work  of  the  walls,  a  broad  strip  of  dingy  plaster  in 
tervenes,  broken  with  irregular,  shapeless  windows 
Nor  have  the  houses  the  slightest  air  of  home,  or 
domestic  comfort. 

It  is  the  general  character  of  magnificence,  and 
the  occasional  pursuit  of  details  into  the  most  subtle 
and  aerial  perfection,  which  gives  the  tone  to  your 
impression.  It  is  the  splendor  of  a  mine,  streaked 
with  earth,  but  in  which  some  happy  touch  has 
wrought  certain  points  into  marvellous  beauty — the 
wealth  of  a  quarry,  in  which  occasional  genius  has 
carved  single  blocks  into  more  than  Grecian  grace. 


VII. 

UNCLE   KUHLEBORN. 

So,  meditating  luxu.y,  and  leaving  the  bubbling 
waters,  we  stroll  into  the  city,  confessing  with  the 
Turkish  poet,  that  green  trees,  and  flowing  waters, 
and  beautiful  faces  combined,  are  an  antidote  against 
melancholy. 

Pausing  at  a  small  door,  we  enter  the  bath.  For, 
as  becomes  a  city  so  affluent  in  water,  the  baths  of 
Damascus  are  the  finest  in  the  East,  and  so  fantastic 
is  the  spectacle  of  their  life,  that  you  must  needs 
fancy  them  temples  of  Undine's  uncle  Kiihleborn. 

The  lofty  hall  which  we  enter  is  lighted  through 
a  dome,  and  is  paved  with  varied  marbles.  Three 
deep  alcoves  are  raised  above  the  court,  in  the  sides 
of  the  hall,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  pavement  is  a 
fountain,  upon  whose  margin  stand  clusters  of  nargi- 
lehs,  wreathed  with  their  serpentine  tubes.  A  mat 
is  spread  for  us  in  the  most  spacious  alcove.  A  boy 
holds  a  fine  linen  veil  before  us  while  we  disrobe, 
and  instantly  an  attendant  girds  us  with  linen  over 
the  shoulders  and  around  the  loins,  and  a  flat  turban 


UNCLE    KUHLEBORN  327 

of  the  same  is  pressed  upOQ  our  heads.  Then  care- 
fully treading  in  clumsy  wooden  pattens,  which 
slide  upon  the  polished  floor,  we  enter  a  small 
room. 

It  is  misty  with  steam,  and  warm,  entirely  bare, 
and  of  smooth  marble  walls  and  floor.  We  pass 
into  another  of  the  same  kind,  hotter  and  more 
misty,  and  a  group  of  parboiled  spectres  regard  us 
languidly  as  we  advance. 

Then  we  emerge  in  a  long  oblong  hall,  reeking 
with  moist  heat,  in  which  we  gasp  and  stare  at  the 
figures — some  steeped  to  the  neck  in  a  cauldron  of 
steaming  water,  their  shaven  heads  floating,  like 
livid  pipkins,  upon  the  surface — some  lying  at  full 
naked  length  upon  the  floor,  in  a  torpor  of  sensual 
satisfaction — some  sitting  meekly  upright  upon  lit- 
tle stools,  and  streaming  with  soap-suds,  while  nude 
official  individuals  with  a  linen  fig-leaf,  rush  rapidly 
about  with  a  black  horse-hair  mitten  upon  the  right 
hand,  making  occasional  sallies  upon  the  spectres, 
and  apparently  flaying  them  with  the  rough  hand 
of  hair. 

These  spectres  are  all  shaven,  and  profoundly 
solemn.  They  undergo  parboiling,  boiling,  soap- 
ing, and  flaying,  with  the  melancholy  seriousness 
of  western  gentlemen  dancing  at  a  ball,  heroically 
resigned  to  happiness. 


328  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

But  we  may  not  pause.  Persuasive  hands  are 
urging  us  toward  the  cauldron.  We  are  suddenly 
denuded,  and  hover  affrighted  on  the  very  verge  of 
the  steaming  abyss.  But  we  will  not  be  pipkins. 
We  will  not  join  that  host  of  shaven  Saracens,  who 
look  at  us  from  the  cauldron  as  lifelessly — for  les  ex- 
tremes se  touchent — as  the  victims  in  the  ice  glared 
upon  Dante  and  his  guide.  We  remember  Hylas 
with  an  exquisite  shudder.  We  gasp  "  la,  la  (no, 
no),"  with  an  emphasis  that  makes  us  the  focus  of 
all  the  languid  glances  in  the  misty  limbo. 

Then  the  persuasive  hands  urge  us  toward  a  door 
opening  into  a  small  marble  chamber.  A  fountain 
gushes  hot  water  at  the  side,  a  linen  is  suspended 
over  the  door,  and  we  are  removed  from  the  view 
of  the  pipkins.  The  thick  hot  air  is  absorbed  at 
every  pore,  and  the  senses  are  soothed  as  with 
opium  fumes.  We  pant,  resistless,  sitting  upon 
the  floor,  streaming  with  perspiration.  Beyond, 
struggling,  we  see  a  hairy-handed  spectre  enter 
under  the  linen  of  the  doorway.  He  rubs  his 
finger  upon  our  naked  bodies,  as  a  barber  rubs  the 
chin  he  is  about  shaving.  The  hairy-handed  says, 
'•  Tdib^  tdih  (good,  good),"  and  lays  the  Howadji 
flat  upon  his  back. 

Sitting  by  his  side,  he  dips  the  hair-glove  into 
the  running  water,  and  rubs  with  a  smooth,  steady 


UNCLE    KUHLEBORN.  329 

firmness  the  inside  of  the  infidel  arm.  Not  a  spot 
escapes.  You  muse  of  almonds  in  the  process  of 
blanching,  and  are  thus  admitted  to  mysterious  sym- 
pathies. You  are  no  longer  panting  and  oppressed. 
You  respire  heat  and  mist  at  every  pore,  and  per- 
ceive yourself  of  the  consistency  of  honey.  The 
hairy-handed  vs^hispers  coaxingly,  as  you  sink  more 
deeply  in  the  sense  of  liquefaction,  "  Howadji^ 
hucTcsheeshy  You  look  at  him  with  the  languid 
solemnity  of  the  pipkins  in  the  cauldron,  but  are 
sure  that  you  would  only  gurgle  and  bubble,  should 
you  attempt  to  speak. 

The  hairy-handed  turns  you  like  a  log,  and  like 
the  statue  of  great  Ramses  at  Memphis  lying  with 
its  face  in  the  mud,  so  lies  the  happy  Howadji  with 
his  nose  upon  the  wet  marble  floor,  torpid  with 
satisfaction,  while  his  back  is  peeled  in  the  same 
skillful  manner. 

The  ceremony  of  the  glove  is  finished,  and  you 
lie  a  moment  as  if  the  vague,  warm  mist  had  pene- 
trated your  mind.  A  stream  of  clear  hot  water  is 
poured  over  you,  and  pleasure  trickles  through 
your  very  soul. 

Then  lo !  the  hairy-handed,  smiling  upon  you  as 
you  lie,  and  whispering,  ^^  Bucksheeshi  Howadji,^^ 
steps  with  his  naked  feet  upon  your  spine,  and 
stands  on  your  body  between  your  shoulders.     But 


330  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

he  has  scarcely  touched  the  back,  than  he  slides  off 
down  the  ribs,  his  large  moist  feet  clinging  to  your 
back.  So,  sliding  and  slipping,  and  kneading  your 
body,  he  advances  toward  the  feet,  accumulating  in 
your  misty  mind  new  ideas  of  luxury,  and  revealing 
to  your  apprehension  the  significance  of  the  Arabic 
word  "  Tdef^^''  which  implies  a  surfeit  of  sensual  de- 
light. He  steps  off  and  leaves  you  lying,  and  there 
you  would  willingly  lie  forever,  but  that  he  returns 
with  a  pan  of  soap  and  a  mass  of  fibres  of  the 
palm-tree — the  oriental  sponge. 

The  next  moment  you  are  smeared  in  suds,  from 
the  neck  to  the  heels,  and  it  is  rubbed  in  with  a 
vigor  that  makes  you  no  longer  Ramses  in  the  mud 
of  Memphis,  but  a  Grecian  wrestler,  anointed  and 
oiled  with  suppleness.  He  rolls  you  over,  and  your 
corporeal  unctuation  is  completed. 

Then  hairy-hand  sits  you  upright  upon  the  floor, 
like  the  mild-eyed  lotus-eaters,  who  sit,  sudded, 
upon  stools  in  the  vicinity  of  the  pipkins,  and  sud- 
denly the  soap  is  planted  in  your  hair,  and  you  are 
strangling  in  the  suds  that  stream  over  your  face. 
You  cannot  speak  or  gasp  ;  for  the  hairy-hand  mer- 
cilessly rubs  along  your  face  up  and  down,  as  if  you 
were  merely  Marsyas ;  and  as  you  sit  half-terrified, 
and  with  a  ghostly  reverie  of  anger  at  your  heart — 
for  positive  emotions  are  long  since  melted — you 


UNCLE    KUHLEBORN.  331 

perceive  a  burning  stream  of  water  flowing  over 
you,  and  washing  soap  and  rage  away.  Hairy-hand 
deluges  you  with  the  hot  water  which  he  bails  out 
of  the  fountain  with  the  pan  that  held  the  soap. 
Then  folds  his  hands  meekly  to  signify  that  you 
are  done,  and  whispers  gently,  '*  Bucksheesh,  How- 

You  rise  and  enter  the  Sudarium  beyond.  No 
unbelieving  Verde  Giovane  is  there  to  scoff;  but 
another  spectre  approaches  with  razor  and  scissors. 
You  tremble  lest  you  be  too  much  done  to  resist 
the  shaving  process,  lest  you  re-enter  the  world 
utterly  bald  as  a  Saracen.  But  a  glance  at  the 
pipkins  nerves  your  heart.  Feebly  this  time,  and 
truly  with  liquid  accents,  you  murmur,  "Za,  Za," 
and  the  spectre  with  razors  vanishes  into  the  mist 
with  a  scornful  smile.  You  pass  into  the  next 
chamber,  and  clean  linens  are  thrown  around  you 
as  when  you  entered,  and  you  stumble  along  upon 
the  clumsy  pattens  out  into  the  large  hall. 

You  reel  into  the  alcove  and  stretch  yourself  at 
length  upon  the  mattress  covered  with  gold-fringed 
linen.  A  boy  lays  other  linen  over  you,  skillfully 
flapping  a  heavenly  coolness  as  he  lets  it  fall.  Your 
eyes  close  in  dreamy  languor.  Something  smooth 
touches  your  lips ;  it  is  the  amber  mouth  of  a  nar- 
gileh  tube,  upon  whose  vase,  filled  with  tobacco 

XXHIVERSITlT'] 


332  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA 

from  Shiraz,  a  bit  of  aloes  is  burning.  It  is  the 
same  boy,  who  kneels  and  hands  it  to  your  lips, 
and  offers  in  the  other  hand,  a  cup  of  orange  sher- 
bet. 

You  sip  and  inhale,  and  a  few  moments,  restful 
as  a  year  to  the  sleeping  princess,  pass.  Then  you 
are  gently  raised.  All  your  drapery  is  changed,  and 
fresh,  fair  linen  is  spread  over  you  again,  with  the 
same  exquisite  coolness  in  falling. 

Your  eyes  wander  in  reverie  around  the  hall.  In 
one  alcove,  lie  a  pair  of  Sybarites  like  yourself,  also 
dreamily  regarding  you,  and  your  glances  meet  and 
mingle,  like  light  vapors  in  the  air.  Another  is  pray- 
ing— bending,  and  kissing,  and  muttering,  others 
are  robing  and  disrobing,  entering  or  going  out. 
The  officials  move  as  quietly  as  shadows,  and  per- 
fect silence  reigns  under  the  dome,  broken  only  and 
deepened  by  the  plash  of  the  fountains.  Clouds  of 
azure  smoke  wreathe  away,  and  the  faint  bubbling 
of  the  water  in  the  nargileh  hums  soothingl}^  through 
the  space.  By  reason  of  the  window^s  in  the  dome, 
the  bath  is  lighter  than  the  bazaar,  and  you  watch 
through  grated  windows  opening  upon  the  bazaar, 
the  passers  in  that  dim  region,  the  camels,  the 
horses  gayly  caparisoned,  the  Bedoueens,  and  sak- 
kas,  and  bright-robed  merchants,  who  all  go  by  like 
phantoms.     One  of  the  camels  turns  his  lazy  neck, 


UNCLE    KUIILEBORN.  333 

and  looking  through  the  bars  at  you,  your  heart 
yearns  toward  MacWhirter,  and  you  remember  the 
desert  as  an  antediluvian  existence. 

But  the  boy  kneels  again,  and  with  firm  fingers 
squeezes  your  arm  slowly  from  the  shoulder  to  the 
finger-tips.  Then  he  proceeds  along  your  legs.  Firm- 
ly but  gently  at  first,  then  more  strongly  kneading, 
and  passes  off  at  your  fingers,  cracking  every  joint, 
nor  unmindful  of  the  toes.  He  retires  and  leaves 
you  to  another  interval  of  dreams,  smoke,  and  sher- 
bet. The  draperies  are  changed,  again  with  sweet 
coolness  in  the  changing.  Finally,  a  strong  man, 
Uncle  Kiihleborn  himself,  kneels  behind  you  seri- 
ously and  lifts  you  up.  He  thrusts  his  arms  under 
yours,  and  bends  you  ruthlessly  backward  and  for- 
ward, straining  and  squeezing  in  every  direction, 
forcing  your  body  into  postures  which  it  can  never 
know  again,  actually  cracking  your  backbone,  until 
seizing  you  quite  off*  the  mattress,  old  Kiihleborn 
twists  you  upon  his  knee  into  an  inextricable  knot, 
then  suffers  you  to  fall  exhausted  upon  the  couch. 

It  is  the  last  stroke,  the  crown  of  delight.  You 
exist  in  exquisite  sensation,  but  are  no  longer  con- 
scious of  a  body.  You  comprehend  an  *' unbodied 
joy  whose  race  is  just  begun."  The  cool,  fragrant 
dimness  permeates  your  frame.  You  fall  softly  in- 
to sleep  as  into  an  abyss  of  clouds. 


VIII. 

EXODUS. 

The  poem  of  the  traveller's  life  in  Damascus  thus 
sings  itself  in  three  cantos,  the  Bath,  the  Bazaar,  and 
the  Cafe. 

There  are  certain  historical  associations  with  the 
city  of  which  you  think  little  when  you  are  there. 
The  only  one  that  you  naturally  remember,  floats 
across  your  Cafe  and  Bath-dreams,  because  it  is 
a  reality  of  romance,  as  well  as  a  fact  of  history, 
and  it  is,  that  in  the  defence  of  Damascus  against 
the  Crusader  Baldwin,  King  of  Jerusalem,  Salah-ed- 
deen,  or  our  familiar  Saladin,  first  appeared  in 
arms. 

Nor  are  the  scriptural  associations  of  Damascus 
especially  prominent  in  your  mind.  You  remember 
that  as  a  town  early  mentioned  in  the  Bible,  it  is 
reckoned  the  oldest  of  cities,  and  a  hundred  times  a 
day  your  heart  echoes  to  the  sound  of  waters  in 
the  scriptural  words,  "Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  ol 
Damascus."  And  always,  as  you  "  arise  and  go  in- 
to the  street,  which  is  called  Straight,-'  the  imperial 


EXODUS.  335 

figure  of  Paul  accompanies  you.  But  beyond  these, 
the  present  interest  and  beauty  of  the  city  quite 
suffice. 

In  its  own  religion,  Damascus  is  famously  ortho- 
dox. The  Damascenes  are  fanatical,  as  are  the  Chris- 
tians in  Rome  ;  and,  as  the  latter  treated  the  Jews 
as  dogs,  and  shut  them  up  nightly  within  the  Ghet- 
to, so  up  to  a  very  recent  period,  the  Muslim  in 
Damascus  treated  the  Christians.  This  gives  your 
sense  of  justice  great  satisfaction.  You  are  glad  to 
find  the  account  of  bigotry  well  balanced.  Glad, 
perhaps,  to  discover  that  fanaticism  is  not  confined 
to  your  owm  brethren  in  faith. 

Toleration  is  the  great  lesson  of  travel.  As,  in  a 
small  way,  a  man  may  mortify  spiritual  pride,  by 
strolling  on  Sunday  in  a  western  city,  from  church 
to  church,  each  of  which  is  regarded  by  its  sect  as 
the  true  strait  gate,  so,  in  a  large  way,  is  he  bene- 
fited by  wintering  in  Rome  and  then  shipping  at 
Naples  for  the  East.  For  thus  he  learns  the  truth 
emphasized  with  all  magnificence,  that  neither  upon 
this  mountain,  nor  yet  at  Jerusalem,  is  the  only 
spot  of  worship.  In  Rome  you  have  seen  the  pomp 
of  the  world's  metropolis  surrounding  the  Pope. 
In  Damascus,  the  meanest  beggar  in  the  bazaar 
would  spit  upon  the  Pope  with  loathing. 

Cadaverous  Calvin,  also,  burning  Servetus,  is  an 


336  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

edifying  subject  of  reflection,  as  you  sip  sherbet  in 
Damascus.  For  you  may  well  despair  if  the  chains 
of  prejudice  are  not  somewhat  loosened  when  you 
find  yourself  there.  It  certainly  will  not  be  neces- 
sary to  elevate  Islam  above  your  own  faith,  or  to 
wax  melodious  over  the  hareem.  But,  if  you  are  a 
man,  it  will  be  necessary  to  recognize  the  imperial 
genius  of  the  Prophet  of  the  Saracens,  and  to  be  glad 
that  to  them  was  given  a  teacher  after  their  kind. 
It  will  be  also  necessary  to  reflect,  that  the  Eastern 
is  a  better  Muslim,  than  the  Western  is  Christian. 

Thinking  these  thoughts,  you  ride  slowly  out  of 
Damascus,  watching  the  stern  Muslim  eyes  that 
look  at  you  as  you  pass.  It  is  a  sunny  May  morn- 
ing, and  the  thought  of  looking  for  the  last  time 
upon  a  scene  so  strange  and  fair,  touches  it  into 
stranger  and  fairer  beauty.  St.  Peter  guides  us  to 
the  gate  that  opens  toward  the  Lebanon.  He 
stands  in  it  and  bows  a  smiling  "iwo/i'  viaggio,^^  the 
last  words  he  will  ever  speak  for  us,  and  the  old 
Hebrew  turns  back  again  to  his  many  heavens. 

We  climb  a  space  of  the  mountain,  and  Golden 
Sleeve  beckons  to  stop  and  look  behind  us.  We  do 
so.  It  is  the  famous  view  of  Damascus  from  the 
Salaheeyah. 

Henceforth,  when  you  are  called  to  tell,  as  all 
travellers  are,  the  most  beautiful  object  you  hav^ 


EXODUS.  337 

seen  in  your  wanderings,  you  will  answer,  Damas- 
cus, from  the  Salaheeyah.  Its  delicate  and  fairy 
elegance  cannot  be  described.  Beside  the  dark 
green  and  the  flashing  minarets,  there  is  all  the 
detail,  the  exquisite  intricacy  of  lines,  which  seduce 
the  enamored  eye  to  trace  all  their  elaborations. 
So  looked,  to  the  Prophet's  vision,  the  clustering 
graces  of  Paradise.  I  do  not  wonder  that  he  passed 
and  praised.  But  I  do  that  he  could  pass  and  not 
enter. 

Higher  you  climb  the  steep  mountain  path,  and 
higher.  Farther  removed,  the  beautiful  vision  quiv- 
ers, golden  and  green,  a  mirage  upon  the  plain.  A 
step — a  turn — it  has  faded  forever,  and  bare,  mo- 
notonous mountains  gloom  around  you.  Winding 
lines  of  greenness  mark  the  water-courses,  and  a 
few  straggling,  miserable  huts  are  the  signs  of  life 
As  if  utterly  to  obliterate  Damascus  from  recent 
experience,  a  cold  wind  blows  bitterly  through  the 
mountain  gorges,  and,  as  we  pause  at  evening,  we 
are  glad  to  creep  into  a  house,  and  remember  the 
"  Pearl  of  the  East,"  as  in  January,  June  is  remem- 
bered. 

Through   cold   morning   showers,  we  are  again 

upon  our  way.     We  climb  and  climb,  still  in  a  sad 

mountain  region,  and  the  chill  day  reminds  us  that 

this  bright  summer  of  eastern  travel  draws  to  a  close 
15 


338  THE    HOWADJI    IN    S^RIA. 

Heedless  of  wind  and  rain,  that  thought  is  our 
grave  companion  through  the  Anti-Lebanon.  And, 
as  the  lover  of  v^oods  and  fields,  going  down  through 
crimson  autumn  to  the  winter,  suddenly  perceives 
in  extreme  October  the  ghost  of  June  gliding  over 
the  landscape,  pallid,  and  with  misty  mien — even 
the  Indian  summer,  renewing  the  feeling,  but  not 
the  form,  of  the  vanished  year — so  we,  with  faces 
westward  bent,  leaving  the  romance  of  the  East  be- 
hind us,  turn  yet  another  page.  For,  as  that  after- 
noon, we  crossed  the  ridge  of  the  range,  the  noble 
panorama  of  the  valley  of  the  Bekaa,  which  sepa- 
rates the  Anti-Lebanon  from  the  Lebanon,  unrolled 
beneath  us.  The  range  of  the  Lebanon  towered 
along  its  farther  side,  like  the  Bernese  Alps  seen 
from  the  Jura  over  the  valley  of  the  Aar. 

As  we  skirted  the  mountain-side  and  descended, 
in  the  pensive  glory  of  the  waning  day,  we  saw  the 
six  stately,  solitary  columns  of  Baalbec.  Their 
countenance  was  "  as  Lebanon,  excellent  as  the 
cedars,"  and  naturally  so ;  for  the  Syrians  assert  that 
Baalbec  is  the  house  of  the  forest  of  Lebanon  built 
by  Solomon. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  its  last  light  flashed  far 
along  the  snowy  peaks  of  the  Lebanon,  which  rose 
sublime  from  the  purple  evening  silence  of  the  val- 
ley.    At  the  lower  end  of  the  range  which  we  had 


EXODUS 


just  descended,  the  tawny  Hermon  crouched  over 
the  vale.  Birds  wheeled  and  darted  around  the 
exquisite  portico  of  the  temple.  No  triumph  of  art 
in  my  experience  was  profounder  than  that  of  Baal- 
bec  in  that  moment ;  for  the  melancholy  ruins  im- 
pari.ed  human  grandeur  to  the  sunset  splendor  of 
nature. 


IX. 

BAALBEC. 

Baaleec  is  the  ecstacy  of  Corinthian  architec- 
ture, and  impressed  by  its  grandeur  and  beauty,  yon 
remember,  with  a  blessing,  the  Roman  Emperor, 
Theodosius,  I  think,  who  forbade  the  Christian 
Bishop  to  destroy  the  Pagan  temple,  the  gem  of  the 
Antoninian  period. 

It  is  Roman,  indeed ;  dating,  that  is,  from  a 
time  when  the  prime  of  Greek  art  was  long,  long 
past,  and  w^hen  the  East  was  Roman.  Therefore  it 
is  not  of  the  purest  art.  It  has  not  the  supreme 
excellence  of  the  Parthenon,  nor  of  the  early  Egyp- 
tian temples — each  the  perfection  of  their  kind. 

But  whether  the  inherent  inspiration  of  the  East 
forbade  the  erection  of  temples  at  the  very  foot  of 
Lebanon,  which  had  not  some  lingering  spirit  of  the 
true  Greek  grace,  or  whether,  as  is  most  probable, 
they  were  reared  by  Grecian  artists,  in  whom  flick- 
ered yet  some  flame  of  the  old  Greek  fire,  yet  the 
ruins  of  Baalbec  are  among  the  most  perfect  remains 
In  the  world.     There  is  nothing  in  Rome  itself  so 


BAALBEC.  341 

iniposmg,  nothing  which  so  nearly  attains  tnut  spir- 
itual elegance  of  impression  which  marks  Greek 
architecture. 

The  Roman  character  is  impressed  upon  Baalbec, 
in  the  massiveness,  not  quite  relieved  into  grace,  of 
which  it  yet  has  the  imperfect  form,  and  wherein 
lies,  as  in  all  technical  Roman  architecture,  the 
chief  fault.  The  intrinsic  success  of  the  Egyptian 
architecture  is  in  this,  that  it  completely  attains  the 
massiveness  at  which  it  aims,  and  it  implies  and 
seeks  nothing  farther.  The  Greek,  on  the  other 
hand,  softens  that  strength,  without  losing  it,  into 
beauty.  The  Roman,  attaining  neither,  like  plated- 
ware  grown  old,  is  neither  genuine  silver  nor  re- 
spectable copper.  Its  strength  is  clumsy,  not  sub- 
lime ;  its  beauty  is  artificial,  not  sincere. 

The  eclecticism  of  Rome  pervaded  every  part  of 
its  development.  The  empire,  like  a  vapor,  spread 
over  the  earth,  and  like  a  vapor,  it  was  variously 
tinged  by  the  colored  soils  on  which  it  rested. 
Rome  was  great  only  in  overpowering  might,  in 
what,  as  characteristic  of  single  men,  we  call  phy- 
sical strength.  Its  intellectual,  and  artistic,  and 
religious  aspect  was  but  an  imitation  of  the  Greek. 
It  was  not  a  development,  as  was  Greek  culture  of 
the  Egyptian  ;  but,  like  all  imitation,  it  was  a  de- 
cline     Home  was  a  gladiator,  Greece  was  a  poet. 


342  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

And  in  that  difference  lies  the  difference  of  their  in- 
fluence upon  history. 

But  here,  in  Baalbec,  is  a  softer  strain.  The 
statue  of  the  gladiator  wins  the  eye,  although  the 
Apollo  is  unrivalled.  And  adding  to  the  pictur- 
esque variety  and  intrinsic  beauty  of  Baalbec,  its 
superb  landscape  setting  at  the  head  of  the  valley 
of  Bekaa,  and  to  these,  the  romantic  associations 
which  cling  around  it  and  deepen  its  impression, 
even  as  clustering  and  waving  vines  wreathe  with 
grace  more  delicate,  the  grace  of  sculpture,  Baalbec 
stands  forever  in  memory,  as  one  of  the  truly  im- 
posing relics  of  the  world. 

The  six  solitary  columns  are  its  marked  and  re- 
memberable  features.  The  temple  in  which  are  the 
niches  for  the  idols  is  yet  elegant,  and  still  suggests 
the  Syrian  Baal,  under  which  name  our  ever  divine 
Apollo  was  worshipped.  And  well  worshipped  was 
he  in  this  spacious  valley,  along  whose  floor  he 
struck  his  glory,  maMng  perfect  summer  ;  whose 
mountain  walls  he  made  his  lyre,  striking  their 
snow-streaks  with  quivering  light,  like  chords  swept 
v^ith  trembling  fingers,  until  all  the  loveliness  of  the 
plains  and  the  loftiness  of  the  hills  flashed  a  gym- 
phony  of  splendor  to  the  god  of  day. 

We  stroll,  musing,  among  the  ruins.  We  have 
no  compass  or  yardstick.     We  neither  measure  the 


BAALBEC.  343 

columns,  nor  calculate  the  weight  of  the  stones. 
Wood  and  Hawkins  have  exhausted  that  depart- 
ment, and  Wood,  the  best  authority  on  Baal  bee, 
welders  that  the  Roman  authors  are  so  silent  about 
it,  and  can  find  only  in  John  of  Antioch  any  mention 
of  the  temples.  An  image  of  the  great  temple  ap- 
pears upon  medals  of  Septimius  Severus ;  but  An- 
toninus Pius  is'  supposed  to  have  built  it.  Sara- 
cens, Persians,  Earthquakes,  and  Christians  have 
raged  against  it.  In  the  time  of  Heraclius,  the  Sa- 
racens captured  it,  and  incredible  riches  rewarded 
them,  and  in  the  year  1401,  Timour  the  Tartar 
smote  the  beauty  of  Baalbec.  When  he  thundered 
against  it,  it  was  called  by  the  Greeks,  Heliopolis, 
City  of  the  Sun.  And  its  vague  fame  shines  through 
history,  as  I  dreamed  of  beholding  Jerusalem  glitter 
among  the  Judean  mountains. 

Listen  for  the  last  time  in  Syria,  for  the  sounds 
which  have  long  died  away  into  the  dumbness  of 
antiquity,  and  you  shall  hear  the  hum  of  this  city 
of  Solomon,  the  great  point  of  the  highway  from 
Tyre  to  India,  when  Zenobia's  Palmyra  was  but  a 
watering-station  in  the  desert.  Then,  nearer,  the 
clang  of  Roman  arms  and  trumpets,  the  scream  of 
the  eagles  of  Augustus,  and  the  peal  of  religious 
pomp  around  a  temple  dedicate  to  Jupiter,  and 
ranking  among  the  wonders  of  the  world.     Nearer 


344  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

Btill,  the  hushed  cry  of  desert  hordes  of  Bedoueen, 
of  Persians,  the  muttering  of  Christian  priests — 
shreds  and  fragments  all  of  its  old  paean,  one  more 
death-struggle  of  another  memorable  life. 

The  oriental  authors  praise  Baalbec  as  the  most 
splendid  of  Syrian  cities,  proud  with  palaces,  grace- 
ful with  gardens  ;  and  with  the  triumphant  mien  of 
imperial  remembrance,  it  looks  after  you  as  you 
ride  slowly  down  the  valley  of  the  Bekaa,  and  its 
glance  leaves  in  your  mind  a  finer  strain  in  your 
respect  for  Rome. 

All  day  it  watches  you ;  all  day  you  turn  in  your 
saddle  as  you  advance  through  the  valley  which  has 
Egyptian  warmth  of  climate,  and  in  which  water 
never  stagnates,  and  look  back  upon  the  six  stately 
columns.  All  the  men  in  the  valley  salute  you.  Even 
the  women  are  less  chary  of  their  charms,  and  when 
the  tent  is  pitched  at  evening,  and  Leisurlie  begin 
to  sketch,  the  children  crowd  around  and  look 
wonderingly  upon  his  work  and  its  results.  But, 
if  he  attempt  to  draw  them,  the  handsome  boys 
bound  away,  because  he  looks  at  them,  and  only 
the  unhandsome  remain. 

But  one  stands  leaning  against  a  tree  at  a  little 
distance,  heedless  of  his  fellows  and  of  the  Eowadji. 
The  pensive  grace  of  his  posture,  the  dark  beauty 
of  his  face,  and  the  suppleness  of  his  limbs,  arrest 


BAALBEC.  345 

the  artist's  eye.  He  sketches  him,  and  a  figure 
more  graceful  than  the  Apollino  has  justified  art 
and  asserted  nature  upon  the  twilight  plain  of  Baal- 
bec,  whose  columns  glimmer  and  fade  in  the  distance 
and  the  dark. 
15* 


NUNC    DIMITTIS. 

The  Arabian  poets  sing  truly  of  Lebanon,  that  he 
bears  winter  upon  his  head,  spring  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, and  autumn  in  his  bosom,  while  summer  lies 
sleeping  at  his  feet. 

Up  from  that  summer,  Baalbec  its  last  blossom 
for  us,  the  Howadji  sadly  climbed.  The  mountain- 
sides were  terraced  to  the  highest  practicable  point, 
and  planted  in  grain.  But,  wherever  the  sun  favors, 
the  lustrous  vines  lie  along  the  ground,  goldening 
and  ripening  the  life  that  is  immortal  in  the  vino  d'oro 
of  the  Lebanon.  The  path  is  thronged  with  laden 
mules  coming  from  Beyrout.  The  sun  blisters  our 
faces.  They  are  set  westward  now,  but  our  hearts 
cling  to  the  sleeping  summer  at  the  feet  of  Leba- 
non, 

At  noon  the  ridge  is  passed,  and  we  look  toward 
the  sea.  The  broad  valleys  and  deep  gorges  of  the 
mountains  open  themselves  to  the  illimitable  West, 


NUNC    DIMITTIS.  347 

which  streams  into  them  full  of  promise  and  the 
sun.  Lebanon  is  a  country,  rather  than  a  mountain, 
and  our  way  is  not  a  swift  descent,  but  a  slow  de- 
cline. Little  villages  are  perched  upon  various 
points,  and  a  Druse  woman  passes,  crowned  with 
the  silver  horn.  Across  abroad  ravine,  miles  away, 
we  see  as  the  westering  sun  slants  down  the  moun- 
tain, a  melancholy  fortified  old  building,  and  remem- 
ber Lady  Hester  Stanhope.  But  there  is  no  longer 
eagerness  in  our  glances,  and  there  is  profound  sad- 
ness in  our  hearts. 

In  a  golden  sunset,  the  tent  was  pitched  for 
the  last  time,  upon  a  high  mountain  point, 
overlooking  the  sea.  As  we  watched  the  darken- 
ing Mediterranean,  from  a  little  gray  village  high 
upon  a  cliif  beyond,  fell  the  sweet  music  of  the 
evening  bell. 

It  was  the  knell  of  the  East.  Sweet  and  clear  it 
rang  far  down  the  dark  calm  of  the  valley,  and  out 
upon  the  evening  sea.  The  glory  of  oriental  travel 
was  a  tale  told.  The  charm  of  nomadic  life  was 
over.  Like  youth,  that  travel  and  charm  come  but 
once,  and  because  the  East  is  the  most  picturesque 
scene  of  travel  possible  to  us,  the  moon  in  rising 
over  our  last  camp,  and  flowing  dreamily  over  the 
placid  slopes  of  the  Lebanon,  was  but  the  image 
of  memory,  which  steeps  the  East  forever  in  pensive 


348  THE    HOWADJI    IN    SYRIA. 

twilight.  So  finally  lie  in  the  mind  all  lands  we  have 
seen.  The  highest  valuij  of  travel  is  not  the  accu- 
mulation of  facts,  but  the  perception  of  their  sig- 
nificance. It  is  not  the  individual  pictures  and 
statues  we  saw  in  Italy,  nor  the  elegance  of  Paris, 
nor  the  comfort  of  England,  nor  the  splendor  of  the 
Orient  in  detail,  vv^hich  ai-e  permanently  valuable. 
It  is  the  breadth  they  give  to  experience,  the  more 
reasonable  faith  they  inspire  in  the  scope  of  human 
genius,  the  dreamy  distances  of  thought  with  which 
they  surround  life.  In  the  landscape  which  we  en- 
joy as  a  varied  whole,  what  do  we  care  for  the 
branching  tree  or  the  winding  river,  although  we 
know  that  without  tree  and  river  there  would  be 
no  landscape  ?  When  Italy,  and  Syria,  and  Greece, 
have  become  thoughts  in  your  mind,  then  you  have 
truly  travelled. 

The  next  morning,  under  the  mulberries  and  over 
the  stones,  we  descended  to»Beyrout,  and  it  was 
startling  to  feel  how  suddenly  the  spell  was  broken. 
A  few  fat  Franks,  and  a  few  sailors,  and  a  few  bales 
of  cotton,  and  much  sea-port  stench,  and  the  mon- 
grel population  of  a  Levantine  city,  dissolve  the 
dream.  Strange  in  Beyrout  is  the  image  of  the 
East,  in  its  still  picturesqueness,  in  its  placid 
repose.  A  few  turbans  and  snowy  beards  glide 
spectrally  among  the   hogsheads  and  boxes,    like 


NUNC    DIMITTIS.  34:9 

the  fair  forms  of  dreams  lingering  upon  the  awak- 
ening eye,  among  the  familiar  furniture  of  the 
chamber. 

Yet  Beyrout  is  built  upon  a  long  and  lovely 
slope  of  the  Lebanon,  and  has  fine  gardens  and 
trellissed  balconies  overhanging  its  most  summer 
sea.  There,  on  some  enchanted  morning,  you  may 
inhale  for  the  last  time  the  fragrant  Shiraz,  taste  the 
last  sherbet  of  roses,  and  be  lost  once  more  in 
the  syren's  song. 

But  some  May  evening,  as  you  recede  over  that 
summer  sea,  and  watch  the  majesty  of  Lebanon  rob- 
ing itself  in  purple  darkness,  and,  lapsing  deeper 
into  memory,  behold  the  dreamy  eyes  of  Khadra, 
and  the  widowed  "Joy  of  the  Earth,"  and  the  "De- 
light of  the  Lnagination,"  and  the  "  Pearl  of  the 
East,"  until  night  and  the  past  have  gently  with- 
drawn Syria  from  your  view,  do  you  sigh  that  the 
East  can  be  no  longer  a  dream  but  a  memory,  do 
you  feel  that  the  rarest  romance  of  travel  is  now 
truly  ended,  do  you  grieve  that  no  wealth  of  expe- 
rience equals  the  dower  of  hope,  and  say  in  your 
heart — 

"  What's  won  is  done,  Joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing  1'^ 

— Or  as  a  snow-peak  of  Lebanon  glances  through 
the  moonlight  like  a  star,  do  you  fear  lest  the  poet 


360  THE    HO  WAD  J  I    IN    SYRIA. 

sang    more   truly   than   he   knew,  and  in   another 
sense, 

"  The  youth  who  farther  from  the  East 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended, 
Until  the  man  perceives  it  die  away 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 


LOAN  DEPi«    , 

This  book  is  due  ona,e  las.  d„e  s^^|f,  ^elow, 
-  -  *=  ""^  Tel^J  f  "fp'rio.  to  dace  due. 


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